


Somnambulant Reset

by NeuroVampire



Series: The Dreams [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2020-08-20 16:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20230978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeuroVampire/pseuds/NeuroVampire
Summary: Destiny is such a feeble, fractious creature. So reliant on the settings being just right, the path walked perfectly, the story followed to the letter.A single missed step could lead you from the path, and then what?Merlin grows tired of waiting for a destiny that never arrives, and decides to revisit the path. When a single missed opportunity is taken, can Albion finally be born?Recommenced after a hiatus - chapters have been changed and updated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Merlin makes a choice that changes the path.
> 
> The prequel to this story, The Fever Dream, can be read as a stand alone or a set up for this one.

Another truck narrowly avoided.

The old man walks quietly home, knowing his path well.

Though he walks, he waits. 

He waits, as he has done for so very long. Waiting, waiting, always waiting.

Perhaps he should never have waited so long.

The thought has pricked at him before, wormed its way into his brain quietly but ruthlessly. He has dismissed it again and again. It has been too long, he must simply continue to wait.

But lately that has seemed…wrong.

He waited to reveal himself. Waited for the right people to do the right things. Waited for the destiny he was assured he had been working towards.

And for all that waiting, here he was.

Still waiting.

Alone, and tired, and waiting.

The world changing and shifting and growing, more connected and disconnected than ever. This world is governed by greed and acquisition, of resource inequality to a scale like nothing every anticipated, systems set up to oppress, designed to harm. A world oddly dedicated to advancement at the constant cost of lives and liberty.

A world without magick, still.

And here he was, waiting.

He was so very, very tired of waiting.

It was his destiny. To see King Arthur unite the lands, to see Albion born, to see magick allowed to permeate the earth and world once more and spread light and joy and opportunity. It was his destiny and so he had waited, wondering what more there might be left to unite in this strange and ever divided land.

It was his destiny, and so it would come to pass.

At least, that had been the driving motivation. That had been the articulated agreement. That had been said to him again and again by Great Dragons and Crystal Caves and wisely ancient elders and everyone in between.

It had been said and so had to be coming.

Except, what if it wasn’t?

What if it had tried to arrive and…been missed?

Would anyone know? Would anyone be able to tell?

Would the only real sign have been that Albion would never arrive?

Perhaps, for all the waiting, there had been a moment. An opportunity that had been missed.

Perhaps he had waited and missed the moment, so deep in his waiting, so true in his belief in destiny.

If that were the case then Albion would have never come, and his purpose could never possibly be fulfilled. Destiny is such a feeble, fractious creature. So reliant on the settings being just right, the path walked perfectly, the story followed to the letter.

A single missed step could lead you from the path, and then what?

The thought fills his being. His blood hums.

He does what he often does when the waiting grows so heavy on his heart that he can no longer contemplate it alone.

He goes to the Lake.

Lovely Freya, long since joined to the molecules of the water until little more than the essence of her former self, is there. He drags gnarled fingers through the water and feels her warmth thrum through him, kind and full of magic. He makes patterns on the surface of the water, his closest connection to any other magical being.

He doesn't speak, merely lets the thought drift from his mind, through his magick and into the water.

Did we miss it?

The answer stills the movement of his fingers across the water, makes him shudder.

The answer is a hiss of shifting dragon scales in his mind, the sound of something ancient and exhausted contemplating. It is the sound of missed opportunity, of time long passed, of misdirection and choice and…

There.

He can hardly believe it, but there it is.

A chance.

A moment.

A time when he could have made the choice and failed.

A face, cold and beautiful, wild black hair as he ran her through.

Her. Of course, it always came back to her.

He fights back against the tidal wave of raw emotion, the anger and fury at the sight of her.

His voice is dry as the wind against fallen leaves, seldom used and even more seldom heard. “When?”

The Lake shifts beneath his fingers, the purest point of magick still left in an ever altered world, and the answer comes in flashes and memories he’s thought long buried, long mourned, long lost.

A younger face, one without the years of pain and bitterness.

Green eyes filled with fear.

Flowers.

“I wish there was something I could say.”

He withdraws his hand from the water, sparing himself the connection as he contemplates what the Lake has shown him. Tears he thought long beyond him fill his eyes, the memory of someone who had once, so briefly, been a friend, someone to admire, kind and brave and strong. As a young man he had desired her, as a creature of magick he had wanted to love her. As someone far older, though questionably wiser, he still pities her more than he hates her.

But there had been moments, so very long ago, and he had missed them.

Perhaps he has waited long enough.

In the centuries since he left Arthur in the Lake he has used magick less and less, felt himself shut off parts to survive, to avoid being found. He has waited, staying hidden until Arthur needs him, until he can once again be of service to Albion and its people.

He has waited far too long.

He has asked and the Lake has answered – there had never been a true chance for Albion, it had been missed.

How to do it? The day, the Druids...he could not go back and change his words, no magic would allow him that kind of control. He could not confess to her his own power, nor speak to himself as a man of 20. He would need an opening when his mind could be more malleable.

A plan begins to take shape.

A dream, long since buried by years of turmoil and betrayals. A dream where he showed her, where they shared something intimate and raw. A dream that he now knows was already magical, waking to the taste of lemon and berries, a twisted connection between her visions and his magic and a need from both to share and connect. A dream his younger self had dismissed as wishful thinking but his older self knew had created a bridge. A dream where a seed could be planted and take root, a change of destiny.

No need to mourn – he has stayed here long enough already.

A song begins to hum in his veins and warm his blood, and he feels the steady pulse and reservoir of energy undulled by age and undiluted by time, rich and golden and powerful.

A simple spell, one that requires little finesse, like a bubble of a command to become live at the precise moment. A simple spell, but one that will take everything he has to send it to where it is needed. Not through distance, but through time.

He feels the magick and his thoughts begin to merge, feels the rushing sensation as they grow and swell and finally, when he feels his frail body can contain it no longer, he plunges both hands into the water of the Lake, sending the thought and magick out into the water and back through the ages.

The world explodes and goes dark, but the spell arrives.

Breuddwyd, adref


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emrys finds himself in a familiar chamber.

_He is ephemeral. _

_The rush of moving that much magic through his system has left him with just enough energy for this task, to create and hold form in the dreamscape. _

_He looks around. _

_The chambers are as he remembers them. _

_Candlelight and the heavy magick in the air. Neither party can see him and he gives himself a moment to watch them. _

_The man is tall and thin, lean muscles from work and a mop of dark hair and darker brows. Despite his rangy figure he is imposing, youth only just beginning to burn away, magick rolling off him in waves. Wide set blue hold none of the trauma that is to come, fixed as they are on the woman in front of him. _

Emrys inhales before he looks at her, feels his breathing hitch. 

_The last time he saw her she’d been held tightly in his arms, gasping as the life left her, his final act against her and the ending to their tragedy as he impaled her on Excalibur. Spirit fading from her green eyes that were long bereft of joy or warmth, all gaunt angles and bitter twists of the mouth, all wild hair and manic fixation. His failure writ large. _

_Years of torment and pain, the woman a crystalline darkness, cold and unforgiving and too splintered in mind and soul._

_Tonight, she does not exist. Not yet._

_Emrys tries to let go of the other woman and focus on this one, glaring furiously at his younger self. _

_This woman is younger, slim but not gaunt, the candlelight illuminating her pale skin. This woman has kindness and bravery written into her every movement, fire in her eyes from passion rather than pain. Emrys can feel the greenness of her magic, the early bloom and blush against her skin and surrounding them both. It’s a heady energy that holds all the same darkness but none of the bitterness and cruelty that would later sharpen it to a knife’s edge._

_It’s lovely to behold, something full of passion and heat and desire, and Emrys wonders how they could have conflated darkness and evil so carelessly. _

_He can admit to himself that she is stunning, long black hair and pale skin illuminated by the candlelight._

_He gives himself this moment to study them. Both slim and pale, dark hair and fierce eyes. _

_His younger self should look out of place in the fine room, with his repeatedly mended clothes, his well worn boots and calloused hands. Still, he seems to fit in, as if status imbalance can be offset by magick, and Emrys would laugh if he didn't have so very little time. _

_He wonders, for a moment, just how many chances they lost along the way. _

_Emrys waves his hand and the couple unfreezes, the dream unfolding as he remembers._

_Emrys looks away as the man advances in the dreamscape, peruses the items on the vanity as the sounds of anger and hurt fill the room before finally giving way to passion, low groans and sighs and gasps. _

_He's not embarrassed, he just has no desire to relive this part. _

_He runs gnarled fingers over the vanity table, skimming over jewellery and lace and ribbons until he finds it. Ornate and priceless, a piece of jewellery designed to be clipped into the hair. He remembers this on her, though he knows not when nor from where it came. The jewels in it must have cost a fortune, perhaps a gift from Gorlois or even Uther? _

_He glances into the mirror and sees his younger self lift her against the wall and tangle long fingers into her hair. _

_Emrys wanders a respectful distance from the couple, glancing at the books on her shelf, at the stunning gown Gwen has hung behind her divider for tomorrow. He lets himself consider a moment of nostalgia, of a time long passed into myth, when he and Gwen would laugh and Arthur would roll his eyes and Morgana, brave and kind, would fight for villagers she had never met. _

_As the sounds of intimacy behind him reach a crescendo (and oh, though centuries have passed he remembers how that dream haunted his every waking moment for some time after, the taste and feel of her) he turns. _

_He watches as she tumbles over the edge, braces himself as she sends a bolt of magick surging through the room, shattering the vase._

_He watches the man stand to steady the woman, her eyes hooded and breathing shallow with satisfaction. He watches as she shoots the man a smile and the memory of it assaults him for a moment._

Her eyes seemed to pull his every thought and he grinned, wrecked but ready, as her nails twitched against his sleeve and he saw dark intent in her movements. She moved then, slightly forward, and his eyes flicked to her lips as she smiled and leaned up towards him.

_Emrys flicks his hand out, stops the moment from proceeding. The magic in the room is suffocating, filling his every pore, and he wonders how exactly this moment could have been missed. Dream or not, the power of it is mind blowing. _

_He takes a moment to consider what he is doing, to listen in case any higher powers decide they want to scream out a protest and call him back to his waiting so many centuries into the future._

_Nothing. _

_He smiles, the movement wildly unfamiliar to his ancient face. _

_He moves forward, slipping the trinket into the man's pocket and stepping back. Emrys is about to release the moment again until a thought occurs. _

_He studies the young man, so early in his journey, and knows two things. _

_Firstly, that he is terrified of discovery and will not agree easily. _

_Secondly, that he is an idiot. _

_Emrys looks to the woman. Remembers all those years of his being dismissed as the servant and wily but not truly seen for what he was. The disguise of servitude had protected him well. _

_Too well. It had been too hard to shed. _

_He cannot risk it being missed this time. _

_Emrys considers before looking down at the vase, in pieces on the floor. He picks one up carefully, studies it, and the moves to place it gently in her hand._

_Enough to remember. Enough to arouse suspicion. _

_He gives himself another moment to review the two of them, the gleam in the eyes of his younger self, the smile Morgana is shooting him. Emrys wonders what path they were meant to have taken, and whether perhaps they would have walked it together. He gives himself a moment to wonder what could have been and hope for what could come to pass. _

_Albion. Unity._

_He takes in the way she's clutching the arm of the other man, and smiles. _

_And what more? _

_Emrys releases the moment. _

Merlin wakes covered in sweat, harder than a diamond, and his mouth tastes of lemons and berries.

He sits up, clutching his head in his hands for a moment as the dream continues to hammer away at his psyche, rich and passionate and utterly imagined. 

He tries to dismiss the taste in his mouth, the ache in his muscles as if well used in foreign circumstances, the tenderness of his scalp as if hair had been pulled by elegant fingers twitching with pleasure. 

He stands, stretches, stubbornly ignoring the remnants of the dream and their impact on his pants. He can ignore whatever he needs to for his head to clear. A cold wash might help. 

He glances down. 

Two cold washes, perhaps. 

He ignores the sigh in the back of his mind, the feel of lips softer than anything he'd ever felt, ignores the unreasonable exhaustion. 

He reaches for his jacket, freezing as his movement disturbs something in his pocket, and stares at the ground.

Sparkling and familiar. A trinket worn in black hair that has no place whatsoever in his pocket. 

Merlin swallows. 

On the other side of the castle Morgana studies the finger shaped bruises against her skin and picks up pieces of a broken vase. She remembers blue eyes and strong hands, holds a piece of the vase up to the morning light, and clutches it so tightly a thin trickle of blood slips slowly down her pale wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and a comment so I'm flying pretty high. Thanks for coming with me!


	3. Chapter 3

Merlin stares at it.

It’s beautiful, the morning light catching the facets of each precious gem and sending shards of coloured light across his plain bedroom. All gleaming jewels and cold metal, now warming because he can’t stop touching the wretched thing.

A death warrant in his hands.

Contrary to popular belief (and comment) Merlin is no fool.

For a servant to be found with such an item on him would be mean punishment, swift and certain. He knows this perfectly well and yet can’t stop staring at it with some degree of wonder. He has no clue how this came to be in his pocket, and the answer to the issue is simple.

He must get it back to her room. Now.

No sooner has the decision been made that he hears Gaius calling to him, letting him know the Prince is demanding his presence.

Breakfast, armour, training.

The morning disappears before he can blink, and all the while the trinket burns a hole in his pocket as he watches for an opportunity to return it to her chambers.

It’s not that he wants to go back there (obviously), not as if the dream keeps popping into his head throughout the morning leaving him hot under the collar and so distracted that Arthur had given up on the mace early and is now just staring as Merlin attempts to remember how to serve lunch.

Napkin, fork…ah, yes, food.

“Honestly, Merlin, did you have a late night at the tavern? Your usual levels of quality service have somehow slipped even further…”

Arthur’s sarcasm is a bit thick but he’s also staring with a kind of horrified wonder as Merlin places the wineglass upside down next to the plate and moves to pour.

Arthur catches his wrist and Merlin blinks.

“Ah,” Merlin comes to his senses, struggling to forget pale skin and tantalising flesh. “My apologies, Sire.”

He finishes assembling the meal without further incident and is at the door, ready to sneak away and pop the offending item where it belongs, when Arthur pipes up.

“Merlin, do make sure to check in with Gaius after this. Said he had some chores for you.”

Merlin struggles not to roll his eyes and leaves, Arthur shaking his head as his manservant disappears.

_His fingers tangled in long, dark hair. Green eyes calling him down a dark road, his skin prickling with the need to touch her, to taste her._

He stumbles and shakes his head, desperate to focus on the task at hand.

As Merlin hurries back down he passes Gwen and Morgana in the hallway, resolutely keeping his head down so he can barely make out the purple of her dress.

_Lemon and berries. Sandalwood and candle smoke. Her nails marking him._

He continues avoiding eye contact, well aware that he’s being borderline rude, moving quickly enough that it could be dismissed as being harried.

With his head down he cannot see the way her eyes follow him.

***

Gaius’ chores turn out to be heading to the market for various medical and food supplies before visiting the woods and picking a bevvy of herbs.

Despite his desire to get this trinket back to its hiding place, Merlin cannot pretend to mind it when he spends an afternoon alone in the woods. Cold, fresh air, the scent of earth and foliage, bird song and bundles of fragrant herbs to keep him company. It has recently rained, and the petrichor fills his lungs, refreshing and rejuvenating.

Times like this make him pause, let him centre himself, ground himself.

The woods are quiet, the afternoon slow, and the hum in his blood becomes louder.

He cracks his neck, turning slowly in a full circle, making sure he's completely alone. 

Merlin releases the choke hold on his magick just a little. It’s a relief, like loosening an overly tight collar or finally relaxing after hours serving in the great hall.

He lets himself call up a flower, using his magick to move it gently from bud to bloom, and takes a moment to enjoy the pale pink of the petals against the earth. It’s a golden sensation along his skin, thrumming through his blood, calling out to the earth around him and connection through threads and gossamer light to pull something from the earth.

As he watches the bud growing he puts his hands in his pockets, not thinking much as the cold metal skims against his knuckle. His thumb runs lazily over the ridges and he imagines it nestled against thick black curls, catching the light as she sits in the great chamber and meets his eyes.

Green eyes calling him down tangled, wild roads.

Something inside him loosens, and for a moment he imagines rich, dark energy surrounding him. His own magick reacts and the bloom grows, fragrant and wild, darkening from a soft blush to a ruby red, and then darker still to crimson. He watches, confused and intrigued, as the flower stops its shifting. The pretty bud and early blossom is now a full, stunning plant.

He stares at the flower and imagines he can taste lemon and berries, and knows he has to divest himself of the trinket as soon as possible.

***

By the time he has brought his haul home and prepared them for drying, eaten the simple stew Gaius had prepared, and washed the earth and sap from his skin, it is well into darkness.

He knows the King is only just sitting down to his meal, knows Arthur and the King’s Ward will be joining him for wine and discussion soon. Now is as good a time as any.

Merlin moves quickly down the hallways, waits around the corner from her chambers. He watches Gwen come back holding a black vase for holding flowers, and she enters without knocking, confirming that the chamber is empty. He waits until Gwen leaves again, hands now empty, dismissed for the evening.

He waits several beats and then slips into her chambers.

The smell of sandalwood, oil polish, and clean sheets produces the oddest sense of calm, and he takes a moment before hurrying to the vanity.

_“This has to stop.”_

Arthur’s projection aside, the Prince had been right. Getting caught here was a sure fire way to open himself up to far more scrutiny than he needed.

If there is a small, defiant part of him that would like to be caught, to have the opportunity to expose everything…well, that can just stay quiet, thank you.

Merlin glances at his reflection in the large mirror and studies himself for a moment, pausing at the clear exhaustion. Perhaps it is the tiredness that makes him think there is an old man standing just behind him, only his mildly panicked state that makes him think the intense blue eyes of the ancient man are familiar.

He shakes his head and when he looks again he is alone in the room.

Merlin slips the head piece into a little box on the dresser, relieved to be rid of the thing. Several similar boxes likely hold makeup and other trinkets, and he feels a pang of desire then to see what she holds dear. He considers looking before shaking his head, well aware that he has already violated her privacy.

He turns, listening for footsteps as he moves to the small table under the window. A vase in the centre of the table holds a single flower. He wonders if it’s the one that came from the bouquet he brought her, and gives himself a moment to smile at the purple bloom illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window.

_Moonlight against her skin._

_“She can’t be your friend, let alone anything else.”_

He knows that. He hadn't needed the warning, the reminder. He knew it had been Arthur telling himself as much as Merlin, clearly struggling with his own feelings for Gwen. 

Even knowing all of that there was something that stung about the words. Between Gaius, Kilgarrah, and Arthur...he was truly on notice to stay away. 

_“I know now who I truly am, and it isn’t anything to be afraid of.”_

There is it again, that little pang, that defiant little spark that wants to be seen.

That wants _her _to see.

His eyes slip to the bed and his brain throws up an image, unbidden and distinctly inappropriate, and he sighs.

He needs to leave before he is caught or does something even stupider than his usual repertoire.

He pulls back from the flower and turned, stopping suddenly at the sight of sharp green eyes and a wicked smile.

“Hello, Merlin.”

***

**Two hours earlier**

Morgana has been quiet all day.

From the moment she woke to now there has been little speaking, and while Gwen has been willing to excuse the behaviour as a side effect of the “kidnapping”, Morgana knows her maid is biting her tongue.

She sits quietly at the vanity while Gwen prepares her hair, black waves being plaited together with a string of beads ahead of dinner with the King and Arthur. Gwen had wanted to use the jewelled headpiece that hung along her part line and rests against her forehead, but the trinket was nowhere to be found. Morgana finds herself inexplicably disappointed, and isn’t sure why she wants it so.

Surely not because she felt like dressing particularly finely for dinner with a man who, had he known what she had discovered about herself, would hate her.

If she thinks on it any further she may feel concerned about the meal, but she is far to distracted by last nights’ dream.

As Gwen combs her hair, Morgana’s mind wanders.

_The knock wakes her, his face serious and eyes are searching._

_Watching her as if trying to read something._

_She shares her hope that magick might one day be seen as a force for good. At her words something had flickers across his face, there and gone before it can be named._

The whole thing had seemed so real, playing out just as it had during the day.

She’d known Arthur had been watching them, knew there would be no willingness among the rest of the castle to allow the servant boy to bring her more flowers, and she’d been all too happy to hurry him from her chambers.

All too happy not to dwell on the thought of having some see her for what she truly was and still be willing to be alone with her.

All too happy not to think about the way he'd looked at her, hungry for something, looking as if he wanted to say a great deal more than he had.

The dream.

It was absurd. 

Merlin, with magick.

Merlin with teeth and hands…and magick.

An absurd dream from a lonely mind. A ridiculous thought.

_Discovering that Merlin has magick, feeling the air shift and grow heavy with an energy beyond her own, powerful and golden and ancient and new._

_The candlelight throwing shadows across his face, now all razor cheekbones and wary blue eyes. Her anger and hurt rising as she realises he has let her believe she was alone._

_Realising, as he advanced, that although Arthur may have been more solid, Merlin was taller. When he stood straight backed and open his presence became overwhelming, calm and focused against her fury. _

_His expression is been unchanging when she slaps him, eyes no less filled with desire, questions and commands all at once._

_She thinks about him asking if he should have dared told her, should have shared a story of destiny and betrayal. She wonders at where someone like her would ever fit in to such a lofty idea, nothing less than changing the very fabric of Camelot to welcome magick under Arthur’s unifying rule._

Such a cruel, sad trick for her mind to play, to dream of such a place. 

_She is drawn to him, to that golden heat, that power and light that she feels filling the room, melding with her own newly discovered energy, controlled and precise against her disordered darkness. His presence consumes the space, pale and dark and terrifying, both a spectre and painfully real as evidenced by the blood on his lip from her first hard slap._

_"My Lady? Should I have dared?"_

_Her eyes narrow at his question, the answer making her smile before she could speak it, well aware that she was sealing some kind of fate, entwining them both in something endless._

_She wants it all._

_"Yes."_

Gwen helps her pull on a new gown, adjusts her stays and laces, and Morgana is a thousand miles away.

_His lips against hers, passionate and unyielding. Exploring his mouth with her tongue as he pulls her to him. Has his smile always been filled with such mischief, so many shared secrets?_

_Her legs wrapping around narrow hips, his lean frame all wiry muscle and hidden strength as he lifts her against him. She wants to laugh, to tease him that all that time mucking stables had clearly paid off. She wants to strip him, to bite into his collarbone and run her nails against his ribs and watch his face as she explores every inch of him._

Even in the dream she held back, well aware that this was not real, not her Merlin, not a space for jokes or planning for future encounters. She focused on every sweet offering her imagination would give her. 

_His face, full of awe and wonder as he undresses her, blue eyes studying her expression through each touch, each taste._

She has been looked at by men for years, long before it was right for them to do so. She has been viewed with hunger, with desire, even occasionally with love, but her dream was something else.

_This was awe and intensity, this was feeling something powerful staring into her and finding her soul and wanting every part. She feels addicted to it, to him, to his hands and those blue, blue eyes._

_"My Lady?"_

_His voice has a choked, wrecked quality that makes her breathing hitch._

_"Merlin?"_

_"Tell me to stop."_

_She licks her lips slowly, watches his pupils blow as his eyes zero in on her mouth, lets herself push against him harder. She could no sooner tell him than ask the night not to come. The fear of discovery, the anxious energy of the woods and the Druids and Uther’s welcoming arms, the nauseous pit in her stomach as she laid down in her bed a completely different person than who she thought she was._

_All of that disappears in this moment, in this place where she is not alone, in this space where someone can catch her. _

_“No.”_

She had known it was just a dream, and she refused to deny anything.

_His grinning mouth against her lips, her neck, her breast, her thighs._

_Strong hands bruising her legs, anchoring her against him, and then waiting. _

_Waiting until her frozen stillness melts away and she begins to shift and squirm against him, desperate for friction to ease the ache. _

_At her invitation he moves, tongue and lips and teeth against her, drawing moans and keening cries of pleasure. Her stomach clenches as the pressure builds, and all the while that thrum of golden energy was thickening the air. Her breathing becomes ragged, she grips at his hair and her hips buck of their own accord. She feels him grin against her as that pool of heat grows and the ache intensifies and she climbs higher and higher until finally she tumbles, shattering into sparkling pieces of light. _

_Feeling her own magick burst out, hearing the vase shatter. Him standing slowly and keeping her steady as she slowly comes down, his eyes flicking to her mouth and her answering smile. _

She had woken before they could continue, satiated and aching. Bruised.

Vase broken.

A piece in her hand, and no earthly reason why.

She sits silently as Gwen finishes her hair, and pushes aside the thought that, had Gwen known the truth about her, she may not be so comfortable in Morgana’s presence.

The loneliness pricks at her throat and chases away the heat of the dream.

Gwen moved towards the door, turning back with a frown. 

"My Lady, did you want me to bring another vase for your chambers?" 

Morgana smiles. 

“Thank you, Gwen, I’d like that very much.”

***

Morgana does not stay at dinner long, excusing herself on the not quite false claim of exhaustion.

Uther’s prattle has her on edge.

She thinks of the vase in her room. It must have broken while she slept, the bolt from her dream playing out in real life. She grips her gown too tightly, wishes she had someone to ask about this.

Would there be more broken vases? What would happen if someone saw?

As she wanders down the hall to her chambers she thinks of Merlin (real, non-dream, non-magic Merlin) hurrying past them earlier in the day. He had seemed harried, refusing to meet her eyes.

Does he mean to pretend at subservience now, as if he doesn’t know her secret, as if he wasn’t her confidant?

She rounds the corner to find her chamber door slightly open. No candlelight inside, and no Gwen in sight.

She slips into the room silently, and gives herself a moment to watch him.

He’s tall.

She has always known this but has felt it acutely the last few days when she had turned to him for help. It has been strange to realise he towers over her, and she wonders why she hasn’t noticed before. As she studies him now, a theory forms.

Alone he seems to own more of the space, and she wonders how often he makes himself smaller to avoid being seen, being watched, drawing interest. As she thinks back she can think of a few rare times when he’s not holding too many pieces of armour, serving wine, or balancing breakfast trays. In those moments he stands straighter, taller.

Arthur, the golden Prince and heir to Camelot’s throne, has a presence that easily fills a room. Broad, muscled and intensely handsome, he draws eyes and focus alike, a stature befitting royalty. As a servant to the Prince, Merlin does well to disappear behind Arthur, present but drawing no attention.

Here, alone, he seems larger somehow, as if he's putting no energy into making himself less visible. In the moonlight his pale skin glows, shadows shifting over his cheekbones, the hollow of his neck and collarbone. He is not a chiselled, square jaw knight but there is a gaunt, otherworldly beauty to him. 

She feels a sudden, intense urge to explore his neck with her teeth. 

He moves from her vanity towards the table with the new vase. Long fingers stroke at the petals of the flower in the vase, and she swallows involuntarily at the memory of her dream, stroking and pinching at her flesh, caressing and clutching and leaving bruises across her.

Bruises she had woken up with, her dream having been so intense that she’d clutched at her own thighs perhaps.

She watches his expression, a soft smile quickly chased away by furrowed brows. He sighs, something resigned and far too heavy, and she finds herself wanting to pull him from his reverie.

She moves closer, near enough to smell clean soap and a subtler smell, spicy and earthy.

His shoulders shift and she smiles as he turns. 

"Hello, Merlin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the support, let me know how you're travelling!


	4. Chapter 4

His eyes are wide, mouth slightly open in shock, and she smiles. 

This is fun.

She knows what candlelight does to her skin, knows it makes her glow, pale and radiant. The purple of her gown, a dark and stunning creation of Gwen's, contrasts beautifully with her dark hair and pale green eyes. She does not need to glance at the mirror to know she looks beautiful. 

Instead, she watches him. 

Morgana is pleased with the effect she has on him, enjoys the way his eyes dart to her neck, collar bones, back up before they can move any further south. 

He is nothing if not disciplined, she is learning. 

For a second she has to remind herself that this is no dream, that this man has not held her as she came undone, that this man is not the sorcerer from her dream with whom she felt such an intense, other worldly connection. But between his assistance the other day and the cryptic message she found this morning, she was certainly watching him more closely. 

She is not in the habit of lying to herself, so she decides not to pretend the dream hasn’t affected her.

She watches him swallow thickly before shaking himself from his reverie, meeting her eyes with an innocent expression. The sudden switch is jarring enough to give her pause, the innocence so clearly feigned but the move practiced. 

Who is this man?

His tone is deferential and guileless. "My Lady, Gaius asked me to-"

"No, he didn't."

There’s no accusation to her tone. She lets her amusement show and for a moment he tilts his head in disbelief, as if she has gone off script and he's not sure how to bring her back.

Something flashes behind his eyes and is gone before she can assign it any meaning.

She offers nothing further, just waits expectantly as he flounders. 

"Um...I was just..."

She watches as his eyes dart around the room and wonders how often he does this kind of dissembling. Coming up with a reason other than the truth.

Her eyebrow quirks but she stays patient. 

"...just returning something of yours." 

His tone is more wary and deliberately evasive, but it's closer to the truth, she thinks.

He is now watching her like he's ready to bolt, waiting to see if she’ll accept his claim or push it further. She smiles beatifically and wonders why she's never really noticed how much fun he is to rile before.

"How terribly kind of you, Merlin. I must tell Arthur how conscientious a manservant he has."

She watches his brow twitch before he flashes her a charming grin, and now she’s sure of it. Sure that the innocent thing is largely an act, that there is something more going on and she’s been kept in the dark along with however many others. His smile is fixed but his eyes are still wary, and there’s something of both predator and prey about his demeanour.

"Oh there's really no need for that, my Lady, just doing my part."

He’s trying to keep the plea jovial but it doesn’t quite land, a desperate edge to his words, and she cannot help herself.

She pulls a moue of confusion, pretending to think hard for a moment before smiling again as if she's had the most delightful realisation. 

“Very well then, I shan’t tell Arthur.”

She enjoys the naked relief followed by immediate wariness as she takes a step closer to him, far too close. His eyes flick to the door, still open from when she came in, and she wonders if he’s cataloguing all the various ways his life could be ended if someone were to come in and assume some impropriety. 

She arches up, enjoying the way his mouth opens against his will and his eyes flick downwards, wonders what would happen if she bit his lip.

She gentle skims a hand across his chest, up over his collarbone, to rest against his shoulder. She uses the leverage to pull herself up, bringing herself in line with his ear, enjoying the tension in his posture and neck as she whispers conspiratorially.

“We’ll just keep it our little secret.”

She feels him swallow, lean towards her minutely, and so she moves away, over to her vanity. She begins carefully removing her jewellery and watches him stare straight ahead, jaw tensing and fists clenching his only outward signs of frustration, exhaling and then moving towards the door with long strides.

She waits until he’s nearly at the door.

“Merlin?”

He turns, as she knew he would, as they both know he must.

“Yes, my Lady.”

The title rolls off his tongue with a hint of warning, less deferential.

Like she’s playing with something.

His composure is slipping and she watches something else glint beneath the surface.

She finds she enjoys it.

Morgana begins to pull her hair from its complicated plaits, looking at his reflection in the mirror, well aware that he’s staring as the heavy tresses fall against her back. She takes her time, makes a show of shaking out her long hair so that it is loose and a little wild.

She is new to magic, to the idea of it, long away from understanding what it is and what it means for her to feel this crackling, sizzling _something_ in her system. So far it has included only fear of discovery rather than a proper connection with the new found energy and how to use it. But now she feels a pull of something deeper, nudging her to look further and harder, to trust herself and her soul.

His eyes are slightly wild, too, and she wonders what would happen if he stopped dissembling.

She is determined to find out. 

She loosens her bodice before turning to face him, face calm as she walks to the folding screen, letting her gown slip just to her shoulders before moving behind it.

“Sweet dreams.”

For a few beats there is no sound in the room but for the barest shaky breath, as if steadying himself, before finally she hears the door close.

She smiles. 

***

Merlin sags against the door.

_Sweet dreams_. 

She is trying to kill him.

Yesterday Morgana had seemed more self-assured after her return from the Druids.

Today she is openly taunting him in her chambers. 

He closes his eyes, inhales deeply. He needs to hide somewhere, think this through, remember the Dragon's warnings and keep his head down. 

His brain, clearly deciding he needs a reminder of what he should be avoiding, throws up an image of pale shoulders and dark hair disappearing behind a folding screen, and his mouth waters. 

He needs to avoid all of this and above all not draw any attention to himself. 

“Enough.” The voice is quiet but clear, and he pauses as Arthur steps away from the base of the stairs, arms folded across his chest. 

What magical timing. 

Merlin braces himself, screams internally, and smiles.

"Enough, my Lord?”

"Enough," Arthur is in no mood for games. “I tried to warn you, I have said this again and again. This has to stop. I don’t know what she’s telling you but there’s no way this ends anywhere other than the noose.”

There’s a protectiveness to Arthur’s tone and not just for Morgana. Merlin wonders what games nobility play with servants in other kingdoms to have Arthur so concerned. 

“Arthur, honestly there’s nothing going on.”

It’s a lie, isn’t it? Is it? He has no idea.

He cannot do this right now, not when he’s this tired and wondering what she knows and trying not to confirm all of Arthur’s suspicions by fixating on the smell of her, the feel of her breath against his neck, the slightly wild curls begging for fingers to be buried in them. 

He swallows, Arthur may be right. Still no reason to confirm it. 

"I was just delivering her-" 

“Don’t," he holds up a hand. "I don’t care, I don’t need the excuses, I just need it to stop. Go to the tavern, find a girl on the same level as you, have fun.”

Those words again.

The supportive tone in his voice makes Merlin want to slap him, but Arthur continues.

“Crushes like this go faster when you’re distracted.”

Merlin is tired. He is frustrated in more ways than one. He has spent the last few days trying to help someone with magic without revealing himself, has spent the last 12 hours trying to pretend he isn’t consumed with memories of a dream, has spent the entire day to sneak that trinket back, and has just now spent the last 10 minutes wondering if that same someone was trying to destroy him through desire alone.

Perhaps that is why his filter was so low, and why he says, coldly... 

“Is that how you got over Gwen?”

Arthur’s head has snapped up and his back straightened, but Merlin is on a roll.

“You _clearly_ feel something for her but spend all this time pretending to be above that sort of thing. But you make time to suggest I’m getting ideas above my station?”

“Guinevere is a wonderful maid and we are lucky to have-“

“She’s a _person_, Arthur!" His voice grows more intense as he pours his frustration into this single feeling if indignation at Gwen being just another servant, true or not.

"She likes pears and can sew pretty much anything and always has time for children and cries at beautiful music and you _like _her but you, you bloody clot pole, you’re too far up your own-“

“Enough.”

“-arse to actually do anything about it so here you are giving me advice that I _know _you don’t actually follow yourself because if you did maybe you wouldn’t be such a-“

“I said enough,” Arthur's tone is a whipcrack, not loud but instilled with such calm that it's worse than shouting. 

The guards at the other end of the hall are watching the exchange, unable to hear what was being said but clearly drawn by Merlin’s animated hand gestures and Arthur's cutting order. 

Merlin sighs, feeling every hour of today's various and varied exhaustions pile on him, and finds himself immediately regretting his words. He should not have pulled Gwen into anything, and by the look on Arthur's face it was exactly the wrong strategy. 

Which, he supposes, really shouldn't be a surprise. 

He sighs.

“Arthur, there is nothing, we are just friends-”

“I forbid it.”

The statement is so ridiculous he can’t help but laugh, momentarily relieved by the humour. But Arthur’s eyes are like flint, and Merlin feels his smile slip as he realises his master is not sharing a joke. 

"You...you forbid...what? Me delivering things for Gaius? Me speaking to her?" 

Arthur holds his eyes and nods. "Anything to do with the Lady Morgana. I forbid you from being alone with her, I forbid the late night deliveries. You will be cordial and civil but maintain an appropriate distance."

Before Merlin can speak Arthur is moving closer, composure slipping and something protective and anxious peeking through.

"There will be _talk_, Merlin. Whatever this is, it can cost her reputation, her future marriage options, or leave you open to all kinds of accusations."

Arthur’s concern is entirely genuine, and for a moment Merlin feels petty and low for bringing up Gwen when Arthur is still trying to protect Morgana.

He tries again to sound convincing.

“Arthur there is nothing there. I know my place.”

Green eyes draw him down dark paths and for a brief second he feels an intense flash of anger at the thought of being considered unworthy purely by birth, yet another barrier he had no control over. The unfairness of it all is crushing.

In his dream he had not felt unworthy. Awed by her beauty, her strength, the dark thrum of magick he now couldn’t avoid, yes. Impressed as always by her kind heart and the passionate fire she brought to anything important to her, yes. But powerful in his own right, free, chosen and choosing, not unworthy.

He bites his tongue and says nothing further.

He needs to scrub the dream from his brain before it gets him in any more trouble.

Maybe Arthur’s order is not a bad thing. Maybe in fact this is exactly the kind of protection he needs here, the opportunity, nay the directive, to avoid her entirely. 

Arthur’s tone is final.

"It does not matter - I forbid it. Stay away from her for both your sakes."

Merlin nods, "of course. As you wish."

The relief that washes over him is intense and he feels what little energy remains being drained away. 

He remains still for a few more moments as the footsteps of the once and future King fade, before heading back to his own room, falling heavily onto the narrow bed into a deep sleep.

Nobody sees the watcher, or knows what the watcher has watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kindly for the wonderful feedback, it's so encouraging!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a brief interlude, Emrys considers this reality...

_He floats away from the hallway where he’s been watching his younger self being banned from seeing a girl. _

_Or, watching a servant being warned not to step out of line by falling into…something…for the King’s Ward. _

_Or, watching a younger sorcerer banned from dealing with a soon-to-be high priestess Witch who will bring about the fall of the once and future King._

_Either way, Emrys is amused._

_He slips from one window to the next, over a glass, down a passageway._

_Is he floating? Drifting? Shifting?_

_Sigh._

_Down into the darkness he follows an ancient but still familiar memory._

_The cavern is bigger than he remembers._

_Or maybe he’s shrunk?_

_He would chuckle if such actions were still possible, but his spell was not for a corporeal form so much as an intangible magical energy with substance only through unconscious stimulation or reflective surfaces like mirrors._

_He sighs._

_What a clot pole._

_He hadn’t known, of course, just how powerful the spell would be. He had expected to burn out that ancient fleshy husk in exchange for the suggestion, expected it to last long enough to plant the seeds of change in that dream and then disappear._

_Instead, here he is, an intangible fart cloud watching in dreams or through mirrors and windows without really existing._

_Brilliant._

_He looks at the Great Dragon as he sleeps, touches lightly on the edges of his slumber to see what a dragon dreams about._

_Dragon minds…are not human minds._

_It’s a lot like looking at a giant, complicated city when you’ve grown up in a house in the forest. Yes, you recognise the concepts and structures somewhat, but to attempt to process the information all at once is impossible. Instead you must process it in small parts._

The Witch, gaunt and haggard, all bitter rage and narrowed eyes.

Laying waste to a city.

The boy, Mordred, filled with anger and pain.

Merlin, the receptacle of every hope and plan and scheme and drenched in glorious destiny.

_Emrys withdraws, angry._

“If he lives, you cannot fulfil your destiny.”

_He remembers so clearly being told a child would deny Albion’s birth, remembers years later regretting his decision to aid the boy in the first place. The escape had been so risky, so many people drawn in to aid a single child, perhaps it would have been best never to allow that child to grow into a man who would cause such devastating harm and loss._

_But she had asked, and so he had done it._

_He wonders if that was the missed moment, but knows already it can’t have been. Her pain would have consumed her far earlier, her anger at Uther leaving her open and vulnerable. Her path of hatred would have commenced far sooner. He could not have borne the blood of a child on his hands, and she would never have forgiven the betrayal._

_He watches Kilgharrah._

_He remembers the advice, the suggestions, the hints and hording of information. He understands that there is no true ill will, only an attempt to support a glorious and united Albion, a world free from tyranny where magick can once again drench the earth and souls of its inhabitants._

_The Dragon believed, truly, that she would lay waste to all of that. That she was the enemy. The Witch._

_But Emrys knows, far too well, the folly of this thinking._

_How much time had been wasted because of that advice? How many opportunities lost because of the reliance on prophecies?_

_Still, it seems he may be here for some time._

_Perhaps there is more worth lingering over._

_There is something amusing about watching his younger self struggle. Today has been an unfamiliar road. He remembers the desire of course, tempered though it was with years of anger and trauma. But when he first came to Camelot he felt it, and the night he checked on her and then dreamed of baring himself to her, he knew it to be quite real._

_Strange to remember the brief period of desire that had been held firmly back and then rapidly extinguished as Morgana’s pain and anger has left her isolated and then bitter and ready to cause glorious pain to any who crossed her. _

_Once he had pushed that aside and away in favour of protecting Arthur and the kingdom. _

_Emrys wonders why that required him to silence that side of himself, wonders what it cost him._

_In this reality no such agony has occurred. His younger self is still only just coming into full power, still arrogant enough to want to stretch his wings and champ at the bit, still whole enough to feel passion and desire and the desperate urge to connect. _

_This Morgana is still kind, brave, and the dark streak that consumed her is still in its infancy. Without further betrayal it manifests as heat, passion, a propensity for taunting, mischief, and rising to challenges. Emrys had found it endlessly amusing to watch her enjoy herself, teasing, pricking at something his younger self had yet to properly discover, something which had been crushed and twisted into a cold martyrdom in Emrys’ reality, but not yet in this one._

_A darkness in himself, ready to experience desire and passion and heat and all the pain that comes with it._

_A lightness in her, wanting to play, to connect, to see and be seen._

“She is the darkness to your light.”

_A warning repeated again and again, but he questions, as he does so often these days, why it was considered a bad thing. One could not exist without the other, not fully, not completely, not wholly._

_His long, long existence has been walked entirely in the light, and look where it landed him. _

_Alone, centuries later, waiting for a king long turned to dust._

_He had watched himself argue with Arthur, watched the once and future King (and oh, how good to see him, strong and hale and still developing the courage that would be required of him) forbid him from seeing Morgana. Watched the firmness, control, and compassion that would one day make Arthur the King to be respected and loved unlike any other being pointed at a servant, and watched his younger self feel safe enough to push back._

_He had watched as the young sorcerer had been flooded with anger and then relief at the potential escape from the torment he was experiencing. No such argument had occurred in Emrys’ time._

_And maybe that’s the whole point._

_Things were already changing._

_How to keep this going? How to make sure that fear does not slow progress?_

_He floats, and drifts, and wanders into dreams..._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few days after the events of 'Guinevere and Lancelot'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one was short so please enjoy something a bit meatier.

_ **Three weeks later** _

He is avoiding her.

It isn’t just chance that keeps him from being in the same room as her, the only exceptions seeming to be meal times. He is an expert at somehow making sure all glasses are full and needs taken care of without ever meeting her eye.

When she stops at Arthur’s chamber to ask something, Merlin is somehow laden with things that simply must go to the laundry. No matter when Morgana appears, he’s somehow just out the door.

When the bandits take her and Gwen and she is found later, shivering in her undershirt, he does not aid her onto Arthur’s horse, and will not look her in the eye.

Merlin is not expert, she things.

He had not been fast enough to hide his naked relief when they first found her, his expression a balm. She had almost smiled at him when something shifted, and his smile was the innocent and reassuring one she had come to associate with him distancing himself. Polite but not encroaching, deferential and assuming no connection. He had moved on to worrying over Gwen.

Morgana knows he watched her as she challenged Uther, when she demanded they go after Gwen (honestly, what nonsense, acting as if Gwen could be simply left there). At times like that she truly wondered how Uther could be so callous and cruel as to value one life over another. She struggles with those times, the knowledge of her own secret making her wonder when it would be her left for dead, dismissed as worthless or worse, as a threat.

She had been grateful beyond belief when Arthur and Merlin had left to find Gwen, wishing she too could go. 

When they had returned with her friend she had felt relief like a sunrise, bright and blooming, so filled with joy at the sight of her brave and wonderful companion. They had embraced, Gwen had even let her fuss a moment, and when she'd turned to share her gratitude with Arthur and Merlin the former had nodded and the latter...was already gone. 

Avoiding her. Again. 

She fixes her hair in front of her vanity, moving to the window to see if Arthur has yet returned from patrol.

Gwen is sitting on the steps in the courtyard, her clever fingers working over a piece of embroidery in the bright sunshine. Morgana smiles as she watches her friend, basks from a distance in the expression of peace and calm.

Her smile disappears when Merlin arrives in the courtyard, jogging over to Gwen. He shoots her a grin and sprawls his lanky frame beside her comfortably. He produces a pear from his pocket, along with a small knife, and Gwen places her embroidery back in the small bag at her feet.

There’s a comfort there, as if this is not the first time they’ve shared in this ritual.

Morgana watches.

Merlin is speaking and moving with over the top gestures, designed to bring pieces of pear close and then further away seemingly by accident. They’re sitting close enough that their hips are touching, shoulders bumping together as Gwen doubles over in hysterics. He’s watching her intensely, grinning and taunting her with pear pieces as he speaks.

He leans in very close to say something and Gwen’s laughter rings through the courtyard.

Morgana watches for a moment, then leaves.

***

“And the smell…Gwen, I can’t actually articulate how these things smelt. Like garbage left in a sewer that a horse had attempted to mate with.”

Gwen laughs.

From his position on the steps next to her Merlin grins, looking straight ahead as he cuts pieces off a pear for them to share. The day is bright and warm, they’re in the sunshine on the front steps of the castle with only a mild breeze interrupting them, their chores are handled for now, and Gwen is laughing so hard she can barely breathe.

He wishes he could freeze this moment.

His smile widens as she tries to take a piece of pear, laughing as he holds it just out of reach and continues as if unaware of her struggle.

“So then, after we’re out the other side and washing that muck off our faces, he goes ‘Gaia berries worked’!”

Gwen’s laugh turns into painful hiccups as Merlin describes their adventures in the Wilddeoren caves and Arthur’s brilliant, though apparently slightly over confident, idea.

“Stop, stop!”

Gwen is leaning against his shoulder now, trying to take the piece of pear and laughing too hard to focus.

Across the courtyard Merlin can see Arthur and the knights returning, and he notes the way the Prince’s eyes narrow at the two of them sitting so close. Gwen doesn’t notice at first, still going for the pear piece and responding between giggles.

“Goodness he was on a mission, wasn’t he?”

Merlin’s grin fades slightly and he watches as her laughter dies down.

She really is incredibly pretty.

“Yes.”

He is quiet for a moment as she finally takes her pear piece, both now watching as Arthur and his men dismount.

“Honestly, I can’t say I’ve ever seen him like that before.”

He glances sideways and sees the corner of Gwen’s lip turning up slightly before being quickly hidden. She clears her throat.

“Well, Hengrist is an enemy of the Crown. Besides, the Lady Morgana asked him, I’m not sure he’d be able to refuse her anything.”

The Lady in question is nowhere to be seen. Not that he has been looking for, seeking out, and then actively avoiding her.

Merlin scoffs and Gwen pretends not to hear him.

“Yes, of course. It must have been the Lady’s doing. Nothing more.”

Merlin meets her eyes now, noting Gwen’s long dark lashes and the smattering of freckles across her brown skin. She looks light and happy and utterly lovely and he grins again, bumping his shoulder against hers, handing her another piece of pear. The air is heavy with the lies they’re both telling, but he supposes it doesn’t matter so much when both parties are in on the deception.

He keeps his voice low and thoughtful, watching as Arthur moves towards them across the courtyard.

“You know, he may have had another motivation.”

Gwen quirks a brow at him, reserved but willing to play along.

“Oh?”

He nods gravely as Arthur gets closer, watches as Gwen’s smile slips and she straightens warily.

“Yes, I think there was something more at stake.”

He leans over to whisper in her ear, far closer than necessary.

“I think he wanted to see Lancelot again.”

Her peel of surprised laughter rings through the whole courtyard like a bell, bringing smiles to some and a very dark expression to the heir of Camelot. Merlin glances up, sees dark hair and a pale face in a castle window, gone as quickly as he had spotted it. He chews his pear thoughtfully, watching the window, smiling to himself.

Arthur is within earshot now, avoiding Gwen’s eyes and barking at Merlin as he heads up the steps. 

“Come on, Merlin, this mail won’t clean itself. We haven’t all had time to munch fruit in the sunshine.”

Merlin hops to attention, throwing a grin at Gwen and nodding seriously as he hands her the last piece of pear, slipping the knife back into his boot.

“Of course, Sire. Just spending time with someone on my level.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at the choice of words.

“You know Merlin, it really shouldn’t take that long to eat a pear.”

Perhaps it’s the heat of the day, or the lingering annoyance at being banned like a lovesick dog, the exhaustion of avoiding _her_, or even just the desire to throw Arthur’s words back in his face. Perhaps he wants to see what will happen if the once and future King is pushed, just a bit. Or perhaps he just likes when Gwen blushes.

Regardless of the reason, the words are sly and cheeky.

“Of course, Sire...but Gwen can be very distracting.”

He throws Gwen a wink which draws another laugh, and darts inside, Arthur’s furious form advancing behind him. Arthur’s ground eating gait is catching up to him, and Merlin strides faster to avoid being publicly reprimanded.

Worth it.

He swings around a corner only to run nearly head first into the Lady he is avoiding like the plague. 

It all happens very, very quickly from there.

He sees her, stunning in dark blue, silver brocade matching the flashes of metal in her hair, loose dark waves surrounding her face. Surprised like this he can’t control himself, his own magick flaring at the dark waves that roll off her, his skin overly receptive as if he’s been burnt. She is watching his face with curious, narrowed eyes, and he needs to get out of here.

Now.

In an effort not to slam into her he twists, the movement sending him falling backwards onto the floor, and for a moment he’s staring up at green eyes filled with amusement at the sight of him flat on his back.

_On his knees in front of her, lean leg wrapped over his shoulder, fingers tangled in his hair and keening cries filling the chamber as he tastes lemon and berries._

“Careful, Merlin. You nearly had me.”

_“You will be cordial and civil but maintain an appropriate distance.”_

He swallows thickly and fights the urge to respond with anything other than an apology.

“Ah, there you are.”

Arthur’s voice behind him is a relief.

The hand that grips him by the back of the shirt and hauls him upwards...not so much.

Merlin has little time to react as he is marched down the hallway, Arthur keeping his tone light and pleasant as they pass.

“Afternoon, Morgana. How are you today?”

Arthur does not wait for her response, just continues striding down the hallway. Though Merlin is the taller of the two, Arthur is no doubt stronger, and his straight arm means Merlin has to scramble to keep moving or simply be dragged behind.

As he disappears around the corner he sees her watching, head tilted.

He may be avoiding her, but she is clearly watching him.

He fights the urge to grin, some twisted little part of himself thrilled to have caught her eye. The feeling is almost immediately crushed by the knowledge that any inkling towards the truth will likely see him burned for magick or touching the King’s Ward or both.

And yet, he thinks, as he is shoved unceremoniously into Arthur’s chambers to begin whatever punishment the Prince will be doling out for Merlin’s little bit of sass, perhaps it would be worth it.

***

Later, as Merlin struggles to remove the last bits of grit from the brass cloak fastenings that Arthur has decided he wants sparkling clean, he thinks it could have been worse.

The chain mail took some time to clean, and his boots had been filthy, but both were better than being used for target practice. In fact, as far as petty revenge on servants go, he suspects this is fairly mild.

Arthur seems tired and wrung out, any bravado from the hallway long gone. He pushes his dinner around his plate while sipping at his wine. It has grown dark outside, and the quiet in the room is punctuated only by the crackling fire.

Merlin works the polish over the brass, and decides to break the silence with some honesty.

“I was just kidding, you know. About Gwen.”

Arthur grunts and Merlin inwardly rolls his eyes.

“Gwen isn’t that kind of distraction, obviously.”

Arthur stays silent so Merlin continues.

“Gwen is one of my favourite people. She’s the kindest, most caring person I’ve ever met.”

Arthur has stopped pushing his food around.

“Of course, one of these days she’ll have to admit her deep and powerful love for me.”

The joke lands easily, and a tiny smile twitches on Arthur’s face. Merlin takes that as an invitation.

“But in the meantime, she seems rather enamoured with someone else.”

Arthur’s chuckle is dark and Merlin wonders if brooding is something you can slap someone out of. He holds his silence as Arthur finally joins the conversation.

“Yes, and he’s left.”

Merlin shakes his head.

“Nope, he sits and broods over his feelings rather than actually doing anything about them.”

The serious expression is back on Arthur’s face and before the Prince can say anything Merlin affects Arthur’s stern, sarcastic tone.

“Oh yes, Merlin, _wonderful_. Good to know there are feelings there from someone with whom _nothing _can ever happen.”

Arthur is staring at him now, a flat expression that usually signifies impending doom. Merlin feels buoyed at having gotten this far, and refuses to back down, meeting his stare evenly.

“The thing is, Gwen’s not the kindest and most caring of all the _servants_ I’ve met. She’s the kindest and most caring _person_ I’ve ever met, noble or otherwise.”

Arthur is still staring but has made no move to throw the cup at Merlin’s head, which seems to be a good sign.

Merlin plucks imaginary fluff from the sword hilt.

“It’s almost as if all that station and status stuff doesn’t really matter-”

Arthur rolls his eyes and sets his cup down.

“Is this about you or me, Merlin?”

Merlin, well aware of the attempt to redirect the conversation, ignores the comment entirely and continues his thought.

“-and that’s the problem with these rules, isn’t it?”

“What is, Merlin?”

He puts down the oil and turns, leaning against the table as Arthur sips his wine.

“You don’t really believe any of that stuff.”

Arthur is silent and so he continues quietly.

“You think everyone has value, that everyone should be treated as if they matter. Villager or knight alike. That’s what you do. Not for glory, but because it’s what you truly believe.”

It’s not praise and it’s not criticism. It is a statement of fact. They do not normally talk like this; Merlin still tiptoes and snarks while Arthur barks and broods. The conversation about Arthur’s feelings for Gwen while they’d been hunting for her had been serious enough, but it was made clear that Merlin was not to push anything.

However, today was a day with sunshine and pears and Merlin feels that merits some pushing.

He leaves the table and moves towards the door, gathering the basket of dirty clothes and keeping his tone light.

“Which, I suppose, must make it harder to enforce those pesky rules.”

Arthur won’t meet his eyes but stands, moving closer to the fire as he responds.

“Whether I believe it or not, our King does. Tradition matters to our people, Merlin, and so does reputation.”

Now Arthur meets his eyes, speaking firmly and quietly.

“For women, in particular.”

Merlin nods, and sees very clearly where Arthur’s concern has been compounding.

Women who are servants have to spend half their time fighting off unwelcome advances from their employers, from other house staff, from honoured guests. Refuse too aggressively and find yourself without employment, indulge advances to spare yourself starvation only to risk being got with child and cast out anyway, or fired by a jealous noblewoman.

Even those with power aren’t spared. For noble women, particularly those who are seen as politically valuable, reputation was everything. With marriage and production of heirs viewed as an entire reason for existence, avoiding being seen as anything but a flawless future wife is critical. There are exceptions, such as those who are already married and have secured heirs, though even then Merlin knows of some who would cast doubt on their rule, or suggest they are only holding the throne for their sons.

For Gwen, drawing the advances of the Prince would risk her being used and cast aside, or seen as a threat to Camelot for distracting the heir to the throne.

For Morgana, any perception of dalliance could mean opportunities to marry may be limited. As a War her existence is still only as safe as the good will of her guardian.

Merlin thinks of Gwen, kind and caring, standing up for her father and so many others when it would have been easier to stay silent. He thinks of Morgana, lighting the room on fire, dark energy crackling and sizzling, unaware of what she has and how to harness it. The kind of power and joy there is to be found in magick.

He shakes his head, angrier than he has felt in a while.

“Doesn’t seem right to have your existence be at the whims of men.”

Arthur’s voice is tired and for a long time he says nothing, before final speaking quietly.

“Maybe not. But that’s the way it is for now.”

Merlin’s mind is chasing down a thought, and he does not take the time to think about what he is saying.

“Do you think that’s why the King is so afraid of them?”

“Afraid of who?” Arthur’s eyes are full of warning but Merlin presses on.

“The High Priestesses – magic doesn’t discriminate. Anyone can have it.”

Arthur is suspicious and dismissive all at once.

“What would you know about the Old Religion, Merlin?”

Merlin shrugs, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Only that they had women and men as leaders alike, based on choice and strength. It wasn’t something people were born into without earning; even the most powerful had to earn the belief of their people.”

He pushes on, wondering just where the line between philosophising and treason lies.

“Arthur, you care what your people think of you, you feel responsible for them. You’re going to make an excellent King one day. But little of that has to do with you being born a Prince.”

Arthur stays quiet as Merlin studies him, speaking earnestly.

“What if others had more to offer who weren’t being given the chance due to their birth?”

Arthur stares and then shakes himself from his reverie.

“Enough. You will speak of this no further. Our King is entitled by birth to the respect and power to rule this land. This is the way things are, Merlin.”

Merlin nods, collecting the plates and laundry, leaving Arthur sitting in front of the fire with his cup of wine.

He can feel something open up; a possibility, a moment, a window.

Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve never spoken so openly before, or the fact that he’s got away with this much so far.

Truthfully, it’s probably hearing the once and future King saying “the way it is _for now_”.

Something has opened up that Merlin has not yet fully realised, and it only comes to him later that night as he prepares to go to sleep.

Arthur will be King one day, and is already contemplating change.

He smiles as he draws the blanket over himself, slipping quickly into slumber.

***

_He dreams and they’re in the forest._

_There are dragons nearby, though for the life of him he has no idea how he knows this. Nonetheless, he can feel a pull in his blood, a familial recognition. _

_T_ _he dragons are watching, they are waiting._

_The clearing is dark, moonlight pooling at the edge of the water nearby._

_He is bare from the waist up, body and arms covered in whorls of blue woad that stains and inks his skin. Permanent markings of status and choice._

_In his hand is a staff, an orb fixed to the end that glows as he considers his surroundings. He moves to the water to study his reflection in the light of the orb. His face is also marked with a blue tattoo, he can see the beginnings of a beard, and his eyes are burning a bright gold. They do not spark and shift, but stay a constant gold that only burns brighter as he turns to her._

_She is there._

_He looks up to meet her eyes, flashing green and full of desire and anticipation. Her dress seems to be made of spider webs, dark hair hanging around her face in a rich tangle of curls and waves. A simple band of silver sits at her temple, a half moon in the centre of her forehead. _

_Her voice is melodic and filled with challenge as she reaches out a hand._

_Are you ready?”_

_He considers the question for a moment, feels the weight of a thousand decisions heavy in his chest. He considers her, the moonlight on her skin, the smile full of dark promise and heady joy, the defiance in her eyes that makes him want to match her, meet her, prove to her._

_This will mark them both, forever._

_He laughs, rich and deep, and her eyes flare with interest and pleasure._

_As if there was ever another choice._

_He steps forward, reaching out a hand._

In sumptuous chambers in the palace she wakes, soaked in sweat, legs clenching together to alleviate the ache she is experiencing. 

Across the castle, in a tiny, narrow bedroom he wakes, soaked in sweat. He reaches shaking hands to his chest, finding no woad or markings, and cannot see his eyes glowing briefly golden in the darkness of his chamber.

_On a window pane in the tiny bedroom, Emrys laughs and laughs._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during the events of "Beauty and the Beast" Parts One and Two

_Emrys is watching._

_He’s slipping in and out of dreams and finding things…different._

_Not big changes, but different._

_A dinner he remembers finishing earlier rather than later._

_A joke that is told with alternative tones._

_The once and future Queen sneaking a glance at Arthur, and the Prince returning it steadily before looking away. _

_His younger self avoiding green eyes._

_He can see the changes, feel them. _

_And he wonders what it means for Albion._

_***_

The day had started so nicely.

_"Keep up, Merlin. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”_

_“It’s a busy day every day. You and Arthur, you work me to the bone.”_

Or, if not nicely, then familiarly.

_“Oh stop moaning. At least the work’s interesting.”_

_“Gaius we’re collecting pots…”_

Ah…to be back complaining about collecting pots, and not genuinely wondering how a troll Queen was about to take over Camelot.

Twas a simpler time, Merlin thought.

A troll.

A bloody troll in the bloody castle pretending to be Lady Catrina and bloody Uther lapping it up.

It had started innocently enough. A hint of a concern, something strange in his stomach that tended to indicate magick was afoot.

_“Don’t you think it’s odd how quickly they’ve become close?”_

_"There’s nothing odd about that. My father is a wealthy and powerful man."_

As usual, a significant lack of belief and the desire to find his own evidence had lead him to a rather awkward place.

There are few things more frustrating than your master, who had only just recently banned you from being alone with another lady of the court on the not necessarily unfounded but nonetheless untrue assumption that you were attempting to ravish her, now thinking you were a peeping Tom.

_"You have led a sheltered life, you have no social skills whatsoever, and Catrina is, I admit, an attractive woman. I understand it completely...and if I catch you doing it again, I'll feed you to the dogs."_

Times like that it felt deeply, wildly unfair that in an effort to protect the kingdom he is being viewed as an idiot, at best, and a complete pervert at worse.

_“Yes, absolutely Sire.”_

Then, of course, come the much more frustrating times. Those are the times where he wishes Arthur would just believe him, just trust him, and just think he may have more to add than was strictly being acknowledged.

Times like now.

Yes, it's not every day you try to explain to someone that their father is in love with a troll but honestly it should not be this hard. 

“Well he won’t be so damn happy when he discovers his wife’s a fruit munching monster.”

“That’s enough, Merlin.”

“But-“

"She's the future queen of Camelot whether you like it or not. So you better get used to it."

Maybe once he would have left it and proceeded down his own path in attempting to protect the kingdom. Once, perhaps, that was the narrative that destiny had required.

But that was before.

Now he cannot. Not when that tiny crack was opened days ago, not when Arthur’s words echo in his head.

_“The way it is…for now.”_

Not when his own magick is feeling closer to the surface every day, not when he’s already this raw and exposed.

Arthur moves to leave and Merlin's hand seems to act entirely of its own volition, reaching out to grab Arthur's arm. He drops the servitude, just for a moment, and speaks as if to a peer. 

"Arthur, please." 

It's a gamble. Arthur's face is impassive but he's not moving away and Merlin takes that as a good sign, keeping his voice even and holding Arthur’s stare without shying away.

"Just...be careful. Lady Catrina is not who she seems. Watch yourself."

Perhaps on another day Arthur would have scoffed and pulled away, but today he just stares and then gives a single, curt nod before he leaves.

Merlin feels like that's a win.

And then things get worse.

***

_Emrys stares through the glass, slips over reflections, studies the changes._

_He remembers it all so well, so clearly._

_And now, the differences are becoming less subtle._

***

Morgana is watching. 

There’s something odd about Uther's intensity, something off about the sharpness with which Catrina looks at him. It’s like seeing something acting normal through a fever, unaware of something that others around them can see clearly.

Moragan is unable to put her finger in it but she knows, she _knows, _that something is going on.

Perhaps it might have skipped over her weeks ago but she's been getting more and more used to watching. 

She watches as Catrina twitches and scratches through the coronation. 

She watches as Uther smiles, suppresses a spike of revulsion at his pandering. 

She watches as Merlin's eyes fix on Catrina, narrowed and wary. 

She thinks for a moment she sees...something. But it is gone just as quickly, and she feels no wiser. 

Still, she watches, and soon the disparate snippets of ‘not right’ are merging into a very clear picture of ‘quite wrong’.

She closes her eyes and lets herself reach out with…something. It is becoming more and more frequent, this mild feeling of extending a part of herself across the castle, sometimes managing to encounter something rich and powerful and bright before a sensation like being rebuked forces her to pull back.

Now she feels something else, too. Something poisonous and toxic across their home like a shroud.

Events move rapidly and suddenly she's listening to Arthur acknowledging to Uther and the new Queen of Camelot that his men could not catch Merlin, accused of theft and now a wanted man. She watches as Arthur is admonished and when he leaves she follows, catching him in the hallway at the same time as Gwen. 

The Prince turns and nearly stumbles to see Gwen, eyes ablaze.

"Arthur, you know Merlin did not do this. They're claiming to have his trail at the Northern border, you must call this off."

Morgana feels a burst of pride at her friend's firm tone, her control and authority. 

Arthur does not seem surprised or even particularly worried by the concern, holding Gwen's eyes evenly. Some distant part of Morgana’s mind catalogues Arthur’s expression for later review, but for now she pays attention to the lie he tells through gritted teeth.

"You heard the King, Merlin is accused of stealing Lady Catrina's seal. He will be dealt with-" 

Morgana watches and suddenly it clicks.

"Merlin hasn’t gone north."

She watches as Arthur's eyes widen and smiles as her suspicions are confirmed.

"Oh come now Arthur, you and I both know he didn't take that seal. How much of a head start did you give him?" 

Gwen has moved until they are shoulder to shoulder, watching Arthur carefully, and Morgana finds she rather likes feeling like they’re a team. Arthur is breathing through his nose as if suppressing the urge to shout and Gwen watches him with confusion and then slow, dawning approval. 

Arthur moves closer to them both, his voice a calm but forceful whisper. 

"Speak not a word of this."

Morgana nods, matching his quiet tone.

“You have our silence…”

He stares at her, suspicion and a hint of wariness, but she holds her ground and refuses to let her face give away any more than genuine concern.

Gwen picks up her sentence, and her earnest words are both encouragement and plea.

“Just…bring him back. Please.”

Arthur studies Gwen as if looking for something underneath the words, and Morgana would be amused by the hint of jealousy writ large on his face if she wasn’t so concerned by what was happening. He nods once and turns.

As he strides away Morgana turns to Gwen and smiles, the other woman's eyes fixed on the prince's retreating form. 

"That went quite well, don't you think?" 

Gwen stares at her for a beat and then bursts into laughter. 

***

_Emrys watches the Once and Future Queen stand side by side with the Witch, and is struck for a moment at the picture. The possibilities. The power between the two of them._

_How could they have been so blind as to not see what could have been?_

***

Merlin is striding down the hall, having been knocked down from the high of having swapped out the potion only for Gaius to tell him that Arthur’s title had been revoked.

So, here he is, trying very hard not to be seen and even harder not to pull out all his hair because this, _this_ is exactly the sort of nonsense that will see him dead. Hiding in grain bins and sneaking around to save a kingdom on the brink of being usurped by a bloody troll who is about to be named heir.

Just brilliant. 

It does not help that he has felt that rolling sense of dark power shifting out curiously, as if studying the world around it, as if trying to pluck at the atmosphere and identify unfamiliar magick.

Kilgharrah had been clear. He could not help her. Could not work with her.

Merlin shakes his head as he continues his stride.

If the potion swap doesn’t work he’s really not sure of his next option to protect Camelot from the troll Queen. His mind is throwing up every incantation or spell he’s ever encountered in an attempt to find one that may be of value, and so perhaps it is understandable that he is a bit distracted and therefore at risk of what happens next.

The hand darts out, grabs him firmly by the shirt, and uses his forward momentum to spin and pull him into the alcove.

His back slams into it hard and for a moment he’s so annoyed that he nearly flings up a spell just to create some distance between himself and his would be attacker.

Green eyes pin him in place and he swallows.

He struggles to pull back the flare of magick humming along his skin, first in reaction to the surprise, and then in reaction to her.

He’s lucky he managed not to throw up something defensive.

_Ah, but you nearly did._

The little voice in his head is wheedling and smug and wildly unhelpful and, of course, right.

It has been harder and harder to supress the urge to use magick ever since that night and the dream. It’s as if his defences are lower or his guard somehow more fragile, the choke hold restraint he normally keeps on his magick has been loosened slightly and he cannot drag it back.

Merlin would dwell on the thought further except that Morgana’s eyes are narrowed and he needs to use all his willpower not to inhale deeply the scent of sandalwood and skin.

"What is she?"

Morgana hisses, and he is intimately aware that this is the closest they’ve been since Arthur’s little edict and he tries very, very hard to look anywhere but in those fiery eyes.

He looks awkwardly at the bricks above her head and aims for earnestness.

“My Lady I don’t know what-“

"Don't you dare lie to me, Merlin."

Her voice is so firm and clear he is tempted to apologise for daring, but instead holds her gaze evenly.

“Uther revoking Arthur’s title is nothing short of madness and apparently the ceremony starts in a few minutes to name that woman heir to the throne.”

The space is already minimal but she moves closer, and her eyes are so fierce he can feel the battle lust. Her dress is a tight fitting dream of cream coloured silk, lace and beading, but in this moment she might as well be back in her armour with her hair in a long braid.

“I know, I _know_ that you know something, just as I know you’ve no need to steal some ridiculous seal from Lady Catrina,” her voice changes to note of pleading.

“Please, Merlin, something is wrong here, I know it. Please tell me what you know.”

It’s too much, being this close to her, feeling that wild and unrestrained darkness filling the space and his sense, trying to keep a hold of himself before he risks ruin or worse.

He drags a hand over his face, letting it drop to his side as he holds her eyes. He is so tired of not being believed.

"She's a troll."

She is frozen for a moment and then bursts into laughter, bright and clear, and he closes his eyes against that sound and the way it pulls at his chest. They’re lucky the halls are empty, and he wonders briefly what Arthur would do if he found Merlin tucked away in this dark little alcove with her.

The laughter dies and her eyes widen.

"You're...you're not joking, are you?"

He shakes his head, watching her carefully to see how she'll absorb the information. It is a ridiculous proposition of course but he has not got the energy to lie to her about this. He watches her expression shift as she considers, her eyes quickly flicking over his as if looking for deception.

"Well, what can we do?"

He is surprised at how calm she sounds, battle-sure and ready, and he is reminded that this woman has her own secrets and fears and perhaps he needs to be better at sharing. The feeling of being believed almost immediately is a rush, and he is acutely aware of the dark energy that is now sizzling and crackling as she amps up for something.

It is then that he becomes acutely aware of the grip she still has on his forearm, as if worried he will try to escape. It feels like being burnt, branded.

He wonders what she would look like throwing out a spell, wonders what it would be like to create something together. 

His mouth waters. 

She is clearly growing impatient with him and there's something deeply, intensely funny about having someone eager to help and unafraid to put themselves in danger to do so. 

He thinks of the potion in Lady Catrina’s room, swapped and consumed, and he cannot help his mouth twitching.

She arches a brow, unimpressed with not being in on the joke.

“You have an idea? What can we do to stop her?”

He shrugs, feeling some of his burden lifted by having told her.

"Nothing, for now. Uther is besotted and Arthur won't move without evidence."

She shakes her head.

“Well then how do we get evidence?”

Merlin feels the grin before he can stop it.

He is pleased, pleased with her immediate belief in what he’s saying, pleased that she is all ready to jump on board and assist, pleased to be able to feeling briefly smug at being ahead of the game. 

He wants to tell her. 

Wants to let her know what they're trying, what he's working towards, wants to share. 

She is smiling at him curiously now.

“Merlin…what have you done?”

To just tell her... 

Footsteps nearby snap him out of his reverie, halt his tongue before he can confess everything and see if she’s still willing to stand so close to him. His hands are pressed firmly into his sides as he pushes his back into the wall to create space between them.

He keeps his voice quiet, shakes his head.

“Nothing, my Lady.”

Morgana tilts her head, considering him, and makes some sort of decision.

She presses closer, her eyes flicking to his lips for a moment, and his mouth goes dry as she leans up on her tiptoes so he can feel her breath against his chin. One hand is still gripping his forearm and the other presses lightly against his chest, making him wonder if she can feel the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat.

Her voice is low, eyes full of promise, and his hands are slipping from his sides to rest lightly against her waist completely of their own volition.

“One day, Merlin, you’ll have to share some of your secrets with me.”

The footsteps are getting closer and he should be running and hiding but she’s so close he can feel her hair brushing his hand, feel that dark pull of energy that makes his blood heat, feel her fingernails prick at him through his shirt.

Her closeness leaves his throat dry, the feel of smooth material over slim hips makes him swallow, his voice a rough croak.

“Perhaps, my Lady.”

She moves closer still and his eyes flick down to her mouth, lips full and parted. Her eyes slip closed, the fingers against his chest slowly tightening, and he realises the invitation is no dream, no fantasy, no heady moment of desire and imagined connection found in slumber but intensely, deliciously real. He lets one hand cup her jaw, skims his thumb along her neck as he moves to close the gap between them before-

**BANG**

They both jump as they hear the throne room doors thrown open, and he shoots her a rueful grin.

“But not today.”

He slips away before she can say more, before anyone can catch them together, before he leans any closer and confesses everything and tries to kiss her and falls down, down, way down into whatever tumble of thorns and brambles that sort of madness lies.

He slips away, filing away the frustrated huff her hears from the alcove and striding down the hallway with a smile. The image of her flushed face and parted lips embeds itself in his soul, and he can feel his magick trying to build and react.

He quashes it down, hard, and though he knows he is slipping he cannot find it in himself to care.

For a man off to deal with a troll he finds himself in remarkably good spirits.

***

_Emrys is a sparkle in a piece of jewellery, and blink of light in the surface of a wineglass._

_So quickly things have shifted, changed._

_So long spent repressing and hiding and holding back to fight for, protect, a kingdom that wanted nothing of his kind._

_And now…_

***

The apology is delivered with the same brisk tone as most orders.

“Merlin. I want you to know that I never doubted you. Alright, maybe I did, but it's your own fault. You've got a suspicious look about you. Shifty. Like you've got something to hide.”

“I am an open book.”

“I don't believe that for a second.”

Arthur pauses, collects himself.

“However, I do know that without your help, I'd still have a troll for a stepmother.”

For a moment Merlin lets the praise soak in, acknowledged, wonders what it would be like to experience this more often.

Or just with slightly less shouting.

“Well, thanks. Whoa. What are you doing?”

Arthur's eyes are wide with mild horror.

“I thought you were going for a hug.”

Arthur’s voice is firm.

“No.”

“No…” Merlin pauses before grinning, wrapping long arms around the other man. “Ah, go on.”

He swears he can feel Arthur’s eye roll but the Prince also slaps him once on the back and as they part ways Merlin feels that tiny opening grow wider still.

***

_Emrys is stunned._

_And curious._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely reviews, they're so encouraging and kind.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd we're back. Thank you immensely to those who continued to review and check in, you're the reason we're back on. 
> 
> Note:  
1\. the story has had rewrites throughout, so is probably best commenced from the beginning (these are not wildly extensive, but should mean a smoother read and some additional scenes/details)  
2\. this (Chapter 8) was previously part of Chapter 7, but I found it flowed better here - it has further material so I hope it doesn't feel like being cheated. I'll be aiming to have chap 9 up soon!

_Emrys watches._

_He watches the Prince listening to and working with the manservant._

_He watches the Witch and the sorcerer almost giving over to desire._

_He watches scenes he has never seen before, and wonders what this means for Albion._

_***_

Morgana smiles as Gwen fusses, preparing the chamber for sleeping and clicking her tongue angrily as she thinks of the last few day’s events, the lies and the harm. She wants her friend to smile, and cannot help the mischievous grin that crosses her face.

“Honestly, Gwen, I don’t know how Arthur can look him in the eye.”

Gwen refuses to smile but Morgana can see her swallow and presses on.

“A troll! Can you imagine? Just…you saw her!”

Gwen nods, striving to maintain a modicum of decency.

“Yes, my Lady. I’m sure the King is feeling all sorts of terrible about it all. That must have been an incredibly strong enchantment for him not to see her or…smell her.”

Gwen’s lip twitches and Morgana zeroes in on the opportunity, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“Can you imagine what she tasted like?”

It’s crass, she’s the first to admit, but entirely worth it for Gwen’s reaction.

Morgana claps delightedly at her friend’s bright, surprised burst of laughter. Gwen’s giggles draw her in too, and suddenly they are gasping, half holding on to one another in the struggle to stay upright as they howl with laughter. Morgana feels her ribs ache and every time she thinks she’s got it under control she meets Gwen’s eyes, sparkling and filled with tears of amusement, and they start all over again.

It’s freeing and joyful and when it finally dies down Morgana continues to hold on to Gwen’s arm, delighted when she leans against into the contact comfortably.

They breathe out their last chuckles, still clinging to one another, and Morgana steals the opportunity to press a kiss against Gwen’s temple. After the terror of their having been kidnapped, and the genuine fear that Arthur had been replaced as heir to the throne by a literal troll queen, it feels good to laugh together. 

Gwen wipes at her eyes but doesn’t rush to end their physical contact.

“My Lady, you are quite wicked sometimes.”

Morgana nods sagely, squeezing Gwen’s hand a final time before moving to the vanity. She flings her hair over her shoulder, hamming up an imperious gaze.

“A lady must take her fun where she can.”

They share a knowing smile and Morgana tilts her head as Gwen begins to brush out her curls.

A thought pricks at her and she watches for a moment, enjoys the gentle tug of the brush and Gwen’s deft removal of clips and clasps.

“Gwen, how did Arthur know to fake his death? How did her know Uther needed to cry?”

Gwen shrugs.

“I couldn’t say, my Lady. Merlin didn’t really go into details.”

“Merlin was there?”

Morgana keeps her voice light and even.

Why on earth does Arthur’s manservant being intimately involved in protecting the kingdom against a plot that enchanted thing King not surprise her? Her mind flicks back to the alcove, to that smug and mischievous grin he had shot her when she’d questioned him, that look as if he had more to say and just needed one more reason to say it.

She thinks of his fingers resting lightly against and then gripping her hips, his breath against her lips and those dark blue eyes hiding so very many secrets and she wonders what could have, would have, should have happened but for interruptions and reality.

“I believe so, my Lady.”

Morgana watches her maid carefully, thinks of them sharing pears on the front steps in the sunshine, thinks of Arthur and Gwen staring at one another, and keeps her voice light.

“Is he the man, then? The one who had you quiet the other day before…?”

She lets the question trail as she fusses with her nightgown, surreptitiously watching Gwen’s face for any hints as to her thinking.

Gwen’s laugh is bright and dismissive, her face glowing and guileless in the candlelight.

“No, my Lady. He is just a friend,” she looks Morgana square in the eye and her smile grows. “And a truly excellent one at that.”

Morgana can't help but return the expression. 

“Well, I suppose we should all thank him. I don’t know if Arthur would have been able to break that terrible enchantment without some help!”

Gwen smiles again, this one smaller and private, and Morgana arches a brow, choosing her words carefully and keeping her voice soft.

“He did well today, didn’t he?”

Gwen is now focusing very intently on brushing out a particular curl.

“Of course, my Lady,” Gwen’s tone is moderate but her eyes gleam in the candlelight, pride and something else. “He will make a fine King.”

Morgana wonders how long her maid has been in love with Arthur.

Wonders whether the feeling is reciprocated.

Gwen chuckles and continues.

“If Merlin doesn’t smother him in his sleep, first.”

Morgana snorts, delighted by her friend’s humour, and felt grateful for these moments of levity. Their laughter before, the rare moment of physical connection to another person, this candid discussion…it is a balm after the last few weeks. The ground, previously so stable, has begun to shift and slip between her feet more and more.

She finds herself less and less able to alleviate the concerns bubbling away in the back of her mind, the fear that she might suddenly reveal herself, the complete lack of knowledge and inability to access it. Every day was an effort in avoiding thinking of magick as much as possible, something made no easier when trolls enchanted the King.

Except, of course, those brief moments where she feels the opposite. Whole and wild and maybe, possibly, a tiny bit powerful. When she can feel something dark and twisting and deliciously warm stretching out from herself, a gossamer web of possibilities, including the occasional reaching of that golden source of energy and power and light.

Gwen's voice brings her out of her reverie.

"Truth be told I suspect Arthur would be a little lost without him."

They both know she’s talking about Merlin, and Morgana considers the man in the alcove. Tired and harried at first until he’d realised she believed him. Thinks of him knowing of the troll and unable to do anything about it. She thinks of Arthur, dismissive until the evidence was right in front of them, and then immediately on board to fix the problem.

“Arthur can be such a bully, he does seem to enjoy riling him, though Merlin seems to hold his own."

Gwen nods, plaiting Morgana’s hair into a long braid. “Yes, my Lady, and then some. Just early they were bickering over a shirt for Arthur to wear for dinner. I think they’d argue over the colour of the sky if they were in the mood.”

Morgana thinks back to dinner.

Arthur and Uther had dined alone at Uther’s request, leaving Morgana to eat in her rooms with Gwen for company. She had tried to set aside the feeling of being a doll to be taken out and paraded when it suited. To be so at the mercy and whims of the men to whom she owed her safety, her position…it grated.

Merlin had come to her door to take the plates, sparing Gwen an additional trip, and Morgana had been pleased until she realised he’d stayed outside the room, avoided knocking, clearly back to avoiding her.

After the alcove, after his telling her about the troll and grinning at her like that, after that split second where something more almost happened, she had hoped he might at least go back to speaking terms.

But no, he was polite, he was reserved, he was avoiding her entirely.

She watches as Gwen settles the bedclothes and begins arranging the room for the evening.

“Yes, they do enjoy a good argument. Though I must say I’ve seen rather less of Merlin lately, even before all this troll business. Would you know anything about that?”

Gwen is not meeting her eyes. “My Lady?”

Morgana feigns disinterest as she idly plays with a piece of jewellery.

“Yes, he seems around far less. Has Gaius extended his physician duties?”

Gwen looks uncomfortable but her response is diplomatic.

“I believe he is being kept very busy, my Lady.”

Morgana waits and the silence grows thin and Gwen, softened after their laughter, sighs.

“And perhaps, my Lady, that is by design.”

Morgana turns, tilting her head. 

“Whose design? Gaius? Uther?”

“No, my Lady. I believe it was at the Prince’s request that he…reduce his contact with you.”

Morgana’s eyes widen.

“Arthur forbid Merlin from being around me?”

Gwen nods, still uncomfortable.

“I believe so, my Lady.”

Morgana is quiet for a moment.

“My Lady?”

Gwen’s voice is hesitant and concerned, and Morgana shoots her a reassuring smile.

“Thank you, Gwen. That will be all.”

The other woman moves to the doorway, stopping to face her.

“Morgana?”

Should it feel strange to be addressed by her name rather than her title? It doesn't, it feels like warmth, like connection, like eating pears in the sunshine. 

“Yes?”

“Arthur may only be looking out for your wellbeing. You know how things can be spread or construed. You know how people can talk.”

Gwen seems older for a moment, and Morgana wonders how many mistake her empathy for naivety. 

Morgana straightens in her chair and holds the other woman’s gaze.

“Nobody will tell me my worth, Gwen. Only I may decide that.”

Gwen stares at her for a moment as if digesting something important before nodding and leaving.

***

_Emrys watches._

_He watches the maid’s mind ticking over the possibilities._

_He watches loyalties forge and solidify, watches a friendship between servant and ward begin to shift and build into something more powerful. _

_He watches a path change and wonders. _

***

Arthur strides back towards his rooms, the exhaustion of dinner with his father weighing on him heavily. So difficult to make small talk after discovering that your father had been…intimate…with a troll.

Nonetheless he has persisted, barely choking down his wine, and is now more than ready to pass out in his bed, depending on whether Merlin has actually turned it down properly.

All of which makes the visitor in his room all the more problematic.

Morgana’s eyes flash and Arthur is briefly halted at the sight of her in a nightgown and robe, hair in a long, loose braid.

“Errr, good evening?”

Morgana gives him a smile that makes him swallow thickly.

“Did you have a pleasant dinner?”

“Yes, shame you couldn’t join us.”

It's the wrong thing to say, he can see that immediately, and suddenly his father's reason ("Morgana was feeling poorly and wanted to dine alone") is yet another lie.

Morgana’s smile is brittle.

“Yes, terrible shame.”

She runs a hand over his desk, idly fondles some parchment, and Arthur is too tired for games.

“Was there something you needed, Morgana?”

She turns and gives him another smile and this one has very, very sharp edges.

“Why, to thank you.” I believe I owe you for ensuring that no servants get ideas about being in my company. A lovely way to reduce my already long list of friends.”

Arthur feels as if he has been slapped and crosses his arms defensively. 

“Morgana I-“

“Who do you think you are, Arthur Pendragon, to act as if I’m some delicate flower needing to be protected from _Merlin_ of all-“

“I never said you needed to be…you know how people can tal-“

“About what, exactly?"

"About servants appearing in your room late at night!" 

"Gwen was in my chambers moments ago."

"Do not play dumb with me, you know it's not-

"The same? Perhaps you mistake my intentions for Gwen." 

Something hot and angry flares in his chest. 

"Morgana how-" 

"OR perhaps this another plan for me to be the loneliest woman in Camelot, so that even servants cannot be in the same room lest they rend my virginal flesh?" 

Arthur feels hot and the ground beneath him is slippery. 

"Morgana, honestly it's just Merlin-" 

“Well wonderful, thank you Arthur, for creating even more reason for me to stay alone with no one but Gwen to speak to except when the King decides to parade me out like a rutting doll-“

“Enough!”

His shout is firm and he pushes the door closed, turning and speaking more quietly.

“Enough.”

He breathes and forces himself to calm, and instead of launching into a defensive rant, he watches her. 

She's staring at him, breathing heavily, and beneath her anger is something else. Hurt? Fear? Maybe both?

He is thrown back to a conversation days earlier.

_“Doesn’t seem right to have your existence be at the whims of men.”_

_It wasn't right. Arthur knew that in his bones with the same clarity of thought and purpose that he knew right from wrong. He had swallowed thickly against his traitor tongue, but aimed for honesty over dismissal, just this once._

_“Maybe not. But that’s the way it is for now.”_

Paraded like a doll.

He steps forward.

“I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

She is quiet, as if waiting, and he continues.

“I know how isolating it can be. And you don’t even get to train or have other duties. I can’t imagine…”

He inhales and reaches for her hand, tangling their fingers as she used to do when they were children, albeit for the express purpose of annoying him.

“You are not alone.”

He puts everything into the words, needs her to know they are true.

Her eyes flay him and he knows better in this moment than to try to placate her. Not for the first time he has the sensation of dealing with something a little wild, and he strives to ensure his words are honest and clear.

“But I will not have you put at risk.”

It's true, he cannot, they are both far too aware of the potential repercussions. He will not have her tossed aside or forced into a marriage, no matter how angry she feels at his approach.

Her eyes flash and he finishes quickly before she can unleash on him.

“I will not risk _either_ of you.”

She is taken aback and he watches her digest, holds her hand tightly as she considers him. She continues to stare as if wanting to take his measure, and Arthur finds himself feeling stripped bare, revealed entirely, being weighed. 

Whatever she is looking for, she finds. 

She squeezes his hand once and nods.

“Very well, I will abide."

Arthur exhales as she steals a goblet of wine from his table and drinks without asking. He feels himself relax at the smirk she shoots him, something having eased between them that he hadn't truly known was taut. 

"But in the future, consult me first. It’s embarrassing watching him trip over his own feet.”

Arthur chuckles and she gives him a genuine smile.

She turns to leave and he should simply say goodnight, should leave their conversation where it has landed, but something in him has loosened and demands a final discussion.

“Morgana?”

She turns, curious. 

“Arthur?”

He cannot screw this up, giving himself time to let the words form, honest and clear. 

“One day…I will take the throne.”

She watches him curiously. He pauses, aware that he runs the risk of creating something truly binding between them, but knowing in his bones it is the right thing to do.

“And things then…things will be different.”

A beat passes and the weight of his words holds him steady as he watches her consider him. Understanding dawns and she does not smile, but there is a fierce approval in her eyes.

“I will hold you to that, my Lord.”

She sweeps out along the hallway, not even glancing in Merlin’s direction as he arrives to prepare Arthur’s room.

“What…what was that about?”

Merlin’s voice is slightly too mild and Arthur narrows his eyes.

“Making promises.”

And though Merlin’s eyebrow twitches with curiosity, he says nothing further, and Arthur prepares for bed.

***

_Emrys watches relationships deepen, evolve, clarify. _

_And smiles. _


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during the events of ‘the Witch finder’

Merlin doesn’t mind hard labour.

The groan of muscles well used is a welcome distraction and at least he’s outside. The woods may be drier than usual but he will never, ever tire of Camelot’s rich, lush surroundings. He can feel the sun-warmed earth against his hands, the trees thrumming, creatures and insects making themselves known.

He considers whistling and then thinks better of it as his mind drifts back to the morning.

_“Stop that, you sound like a happy idiot.”_

_Idiot is thrown about too easily, Merlin thinks. Naïve, perhaps, or even a little prone to silliness…but not an idiot._

_He grins at Arthur as he follows him down the front steps, arms full of gear._

_“Better a happy idiot than a grumpy Prince.”_

_Arthur shoots him a look and may have been about to say something, but Merlin’s eyes are drawn to the woman in the courtyard. _

_Her hair is pulled back into a braid, a practical gown he knows she’d rather not wear for this kind of adventure. Her horse is saddled and well-groomed, and she lets her hand trail along its flank, alerting the beast to her presence so it doesn’t startle. She whispers something in its ear and lets her cheek press against its shoulder for a moment before mounting it smoothly._

_His shoulder twitches. In the sunlight she looks like someone to be worshipped._

_He’s jealous of a fucking horse._

_He avoids her eyes and she mercifully does the same (and if he wonders why, if he thinks perhaps she’s been cooler to him lately and more willing to let him avoid her, then so be it)._

_It’s not as if he misses the riling, the flash in her eyes, the challenge in her smile when she was forcing him to plot new routes and duck to avoid her._

_It’s not that he misses the game._

_Arthur clears his throat and Merlin swallows thickly._

_“In that case, oh happy idiot, enjoy the afternoon assisting with firewood collection.”_

_Morgana doesn’t spare him a glance as they ride away, and Merlin feels something hot spreading out across his chest and neck._

_As he watches them leave thinks that yes, perhaps he is indeed an idiot._

Maybe that is why, after a long day of labour, he takes a moment to watch the smoke curling. His hand twitches, energy too close to the surface, magick waiting to be burned off as he struggles to retain control.

He briefly considers conjuring her in it, but that seems too crass, she’s not something to draw on and tempt himself with.

Instead he calls the horse, strong and beautiful, rising from the smoke with ease. It costs him nothing, the natural world rather desperate at times to let him play with it, and he lets himself enjoy the sight.

He thinks, perhaps, that she would like it.

When the village woman grabs his arm, terrified and determined to share the information with their King, Merlin feels his heart drop.

“Yup,” he groans. “Definitely an idiot.”

***

_Emrys slips over the class of the throne room, watches the proceedings below._

_The differences are subtle, but there._

***

“Send for the Witchfinder.”

Time stands still for a moment as Merlin watches horror crawl across her face, eyes wide and mouth open. Fear suits her ill, and Merlin thinks on the name for a moment.

_Witch_finder.

Not _Magick_finder. Not _Wizard_finder.

_Witch_finder.

“Sire, is it necessary to resort to such measures?”

Gaius’ counsel is calm and wise but Merlin can hear the concern under his breath.

Later, in the privacy of their shared home, Gaius is less calm.

“…what were you thinking?!”

About her.

About that dark, rich power that ebbs and flows with her emotional state.

About the glint in her eyes and the secrets on her lips and whether she would really, truly, taste of lemon and berries.

About power.

He bites his tongue.

“I wasn’t thinking.”

Gaius has no time for games, not today.

“He is a force to be reckoned with.”

“But I’m not a witch, look…no dress or anything.”

Gaius is unamused and Merlin swallows the rebuke in his eyes. It’s fair.

“I’ll get the book.”

***

_Emrys watches the man who had loved him earliest and perhaps fullest._

_Gaius’ concern is written in his movements, jerking and frustrated._

_Emrys considers how things are changing, and hopes he hasn’t signed an earlier death warrant from the one person who knew him for what he was at the time._

***

Morgana stands by the window, looking out into the dark courtyard as she hears a horse approaching. She shifts, her bodice feeling like a vice across her chest as she struggles to keep the fear in check.

Sometimes the candles, the silk, the lovely dresses and jewellery, feel like cuffs. Like cages.

To be forced to sit, attentive and silent, while some poor woman shares her horror and the King declares to the room how he’ll stand up and stop the rampant evil across their land.

_“It cannot continue.”_

_ “I will hunt down those responsible, Father. They will not escape unpunished.”_

_She thinks she hears something tired and resigned in Arthur’s voice._

_Punished. She wants to scoff. _

_A smoke horse. Little, smoky horse. Of course, they must surely be punished for such an affront. If that had even been what happened at all. _

_“Send for the Witchfinder.”_

Her heart had dropped and since then she hadn’t been able to eat, nor to drink.

She watches the carriage arrive and the man step out, barely registers Gwen at her shoulder.

“Is that him?”

Morgana forces sound from her throat.

“Yes.”

“What’s that cage for?”

“It hardly bares thinking about.”

Morgana cannot keep the tremble from her voice.

She doesn’t notice Gwen’s head snap up, clever brown eyes narrowing briefly and then widening. But when the man in the courtyard turns she feels a bolt through her heart, and the gasp escapes her throat before the can stop it.

She feels Gwen’s hand against her forearm, and focuses on the warmth.

***

Arthur watches a grown man rebuke the King of Camelot. Apparently their land is on the brink of dark oblivion…because of a smoke horse. The man has theatre behind him, of course. Arthur supposes he would need to.

He offers the support of himself and the knights, ready to bring this nonsense to a swift conclusion.

Something about the man’s refusal of assistance pricks at him, and he can feel a presence behind him, a shadow as if telling him to look more closely.

Subtle methods...require the least transparency.

As the man turns to leave Arthur cannot help but want more information.

“Aredian, when do you begin?”

“I’ve already begun.”

Arthur struggles to avoid his lip curling.

Later, as he heads to his chambers, he passes Gwen in the hallway.

“My Lord, you seem troubled.”

He stares a beat too long as he is so often prone to do, briefly but completely enchanted by the freckles on the bridge of her nose.

“The Witchfinder’s presence is little cause for celebration.”

Gwen nods.

“Of course. May he bring things to a swift conclusion.”

Arthur is tired and cannot stop the words before the slip through.

“Yes, a tired woman seeing a horse in some smoke is surely the greatest threat we’ve encountered.”

Gwen’s mouth twitches and her eyes widen in shock. His own mouth drops open as he struggles to think of how to take back the words but then she’s smiling, brilliant and bright, and the laughter in her voice makes him grow warm.

“Guinevere…I’m sorry…too much wine.”

She purses her lips, suppresses the smile, but can’t keep the amusement from her expression.

“Of course, my Lord.”

The way her eyes narrow and her brow quirks are positively sinful before her expression changes to one of concern.

“My Lady is unsettled by his presence.”

He scoffs.

“Morgana’s tongue is far too sharp to be afraid of any mortal man.”

Gwen’s eyes narrow defensively.

“Maybe. But her heart is twice as soft, and perhaps she feels for the future victims.”

He watches her carefully and his voice is sharpened by fear of what her words would mean if the wrong person heard her saying them.

“The Witchfinder is here to ensure magick cannot cause further harm to this kingdom.”

She says nothing for a moment and he knows they are both thinking of the same thing. A gentle, strong man who loved his daughter fiercely and wanted nothing more than her safety. A blacksmith and a kind soul. An unwarranted death in a war against the ephemeral.

She curtsies.

“Of course, my Lord.”

“Guinevere I…”

But she is gone, and he is left alone with the scent of lilacs and the weight of his shame.

***

_“Merlin? I have a few questions for you to answer. Please be at my chambers in an hour.”_

Merlin hates being questioned.

He can hold his ground, of course. He’s used to dissembling. But this kind of deliberate trickery, word play designed to create slip ups and pitfalls, make him feel ill. As if his time is being wasted, as if someone is laying little word traps to catch him confess to something he cannot control anyway. He does not have the experience with this kind of rapid, twisting jousting to protect against it, and it makes him want to lash out.

“Can you prove that it wasn’t?”

“No.”

“That’ll be all. For now.”

As he leaves he bites the inside of his cheek, hard.

***

They are brought back in front of the throne for another round of theatrics.

Merlin watches the supposed witnesses recount some fabulous stories of magick being used to frighten and disorient. No real consideration as to why, exactly, someone would want to do those things, no attempt to look for logic in why someone would want to vomit toads.

It’s dramatic, and they’re genuinely afraid, and that is enough.

Uther is receptive as always, far too ready to agree that a hidden, malevolent force is poisoning his world, and Merlin is all too aware that the Witchfinder will be offering up an ideal patsy any minute now.

There’s an elegance to it, something calculating and well planned that makes his stomach twist.

“My methods are infallible, my findings incontestable. The facts point to one person, and one person alone.”

He can feel it coming, knows it’s coming, and somehow is still too distracted by the fear and genuine guilt on Morgana’s face.

“The boy, Merlin.”

Arthur is gloriously unimpressed.

“Merlin…you can’t be serious.”

Gaius’ defence is understandably passionate, but when Uther turns his eyes to him, Merlin finds himself feeling cold.

Let them search his home.

“I have nothing to hide from him.”

***

The bracelet is flashy and wild. An ‘amulet of enchantment’.

Arthur watches as Gaius claims the amulet belongs to him, and something awkward begins to take shape in his mind.

***

Merlin’s boots crunch over shattered glass.

Paper from hundreds of books, lovingly collected receptacles of knowledge and healing, torn asunder. Herbs, carefully picked and stored just right, are smashed and squished. A place of nourishment and care thrown about like so much garbage.

Gaius in chains.

Merlin feels something tight across his chest and struggles to breathe. He is afraid, for Gaius, for the kingdom.

***

_Emrys remembers this._

_The helplessness, the guilt at what he has wrought._

_He remembers the plummeting in his stomach at the disarray of their home, the disregard for someone who cared for healing and helping, someone who had served loyally._

_All gone in the blink of an accusation._

_Emrys remembers this very well._

_What he doesn’t remember is having a visitor…_

***

Merlin leans gingerly on the edge of the table. He is tired and needs the loneliness to help him get this back under control.

He can feel it before turning, that dark power, shifting and roiling as if the owner is deeply unsettled.

“Merlin…what happened?”

She moves carefully, unwilling to step on paper, and her hand twitches as if she wants to pick things off the floor. Her eyes flash as she glances around, taking in the carnage with her anger boiling so close to the surface it turns her magick to something heated and ready to lash out.

He wants her gone, he cannot be near this right now, and the words get caught in his throat.

“They took him…they took him away.”

She comes closer still until she is standing between his legs, green eyes filled with concern and guilt.

It’s a drug, that dark pull, and he feels his breathes grow shallow.

She presses her hand to his face, strokes slender fingers over his cheekbone, and he cannot help his eyes flicking down to her mouth. He wants to lose himself in her, in this strange connection he cannot seem to run from.

He pushes her away.

“I’ve no time for games, Morgana.”

The hurt flashes across her face quickly and is replaced by an arched brow as she pulls her hand away.

“My apologies, here I was thinking to offer comfort.” Her conversational tone belies an underlying anxiety, and he wonders why she doesn’t move away. “First poor Gaius, and then who?”

He wants to make her leave, to get back this space away from her, to be allowed to reign himself in without her exacerbating presence.

“Another witch, I suppose.”

She looks like she’s been slapped and he regrets the words, careless and cruel, immediately.

Morgana turns to leave and he stands, catching her arm and unable to stop his thumb trailing against the skin of her wrist. He pulls her back gently, closer than he shoulder, and though she refuses to turn to him, he finds himself not unhappy to have her thin shoulders pressed against his chest.

He rests his hands lightly on her arms, relieved when she doesn’t pull away.

The crook of her neck is pale, hair drawn to one side, and he resists the urge to do more than whisper. He closes his eyes.

“My Lady, you should feel no more guilty for your magick than Arthur should for being a Prince; it is who you are.”

He is honest with her for a moment, and with himself, and leans close enough they both shiver when his breath hits her skin.

“Nothing more, nothing less.”

She is still against him for a moment as he withdraws. He lets her leave, refusing to watch her walk away.

***

_Emrys watches his younger self watch her leave, something bright and blinding in his expression._

_He watches as he steels himself, striding purposefully out the door to argue with a dragon._

***

“There’s no need to be concerned, my lady. I won’t detain you long…It’s true, is it not, that you have received treatment for nightmares?”

She struggles to keep her breathing even. Surely he can smell it on her, taste it in the air. Here he is, calm and cruel and calculating, and she knows without a doubt that there would be no kindness here, no understanding.

Morgana thinks of an hour earlier, Gaius’ beautiful home destroyed, his precious belongings thrown and tossed about. She wonders what will happen to him, or her.

The anxiety of the last few weeks of deception, confusion, all of it comes to the fore, and she feels her throat close as their conversation proceeds.

She hates feeling small.

_“My Lady, you should feel no more guilty for your magick than Arthur should for being a Prince; it is who you are.”_

She is not small.

She holds herself together as much as possible, even as she feels her lungs constrict. She runs her fingers over her wrist, remembers a large hand with calloused fingers doing the same an hour before, tries to imagine it burnt into her skin.

When the Witchfinder lets her leave she shoots him a grateful smile.

“So, for all you know, your potions could have been magical? These dreams the product of an enchanted elixir?”

No, no they could not. Not with Gaius, kind and conscientious Gaius looking out for her. How dare he assume such a thing?

“Oh, I had these dreams before I started treatment.”

“Have they got better or worse since Gaius began treating you?”

She freezes as his trap snaps shut, feels her heart break as she turns.

She cannot lie. She knows she cannot lie.

“Worse.”

“As I thought…thank you, you’ve been most helpful.”

Morgana watches him for a moment, sees something small and pathetic to him despite his stature, his gravitas. She knows she has put Gauis in harm’s way, but knows equally there were no other options.

Perhaps once she would have retreated to her chambers to cry against her coverlet.

_ “Nothing more, nothing less.”_

She straightens her back and strides away.

***

And there it is.

Gaius, gentle and strong and loving Gaius, reduced to a forced confession on the floor of the great chamber.

Gaius, clearly in pain, dehydrated, refusing to look away from Uther’s eyes as if willing him to see past the lies.

Arthur watches in horror and then looks to Merlin, pain and anger writ large on his face. He glances to his side and sees Morgana, horror and something more gleaming in her eyes as she and Gwen watch the drama.

“You’ve betrayed me Gaius…by the laws of Camelot I must sentence you to death.”

He can see the intention on Merlin’s face and is up as the other man strides forward, intercepting quickly.

“You’re a liar!”

He intercepts his servant before he can get himself killed, and feels Gwen’s eyes on his back as they leave.

He can give him time with Gaius, he knows that, but there is something foul and sticky settling in his lungs.

It is not enough, and he knows it.

***

Gwen grabbing his arm is enough to distract him from most things.

“Merlin has proof that Gaius is innocent.”

He swallows.

“My father's already passed sentence. There's nothing I can do.”

He tone changes from comrade to fury so quickly it gives him whiplash, but the passion is mesmerising.

“You can do the right thing, Arthur Pendragon! You can show some faith in a loyal friend, or you can stand by and watch an innocent man die!”

“Guinevere...”

“You did it once before to my father; are you really willing to let it happen again? And you can stop looking at me like that, I know I'm only a servant! I thought you were a prince, so start behaving like one!”

She’s right.

She’s right.

He knows she’s right.

He wants to be who he sees in her eyes. He wants to be someone who doesn’t need to be threatened to stop the murder of an old healer.

He calls the proceedings to a halt, and lets her drag him to the throne room, childishly delighted when she doesn’t let go of his hand the whole way there.

***

_Emrys watches his younger self present evidence, watches Morgana stare as he and Gwen provide proof._

_Morgana’s face is full of approval and something more, and Emrys can see the path changing._

***

The room is a flurry of movement, oddly fevered.

“You’re wasting your time.”

“Cupboard over there.”

Arthur is much quicker to direct them now; check here, go there, search away. Merlin watches the Prince order every corner searched, no stone left unturned. He finds it oddly encouraging as Arthur orders things upturned and tossed aside, too professional to be petty revenge, of course.

As the toad squelches to the floor Merlin has to admit he might actually be having more fun than he really should, but there’s a hard edge to his mirth. Aredian’s panicked state is well deserved and Merlin wonders how many places he went to, how much suffering he wrought with his lies and deceptions, how much cruelty this man inflicted before he was finally stopped.

His enjoyment comes to a crashing halt when Morgana is grabbed.

Uther and Arthur have swords drawn and Merlin watches. Her eyes are wide, the blade shining against her pale throat, and when their eyes lock the fear in her face makes him feel ill.

“Aredian, think carefully about what you're doing. You will never escape from Camelot alive.”

“I will if you value the life of your ward. Hmm?”

Merlin could not stop himself even if he wanted to.

“Forbærnan.”

***

Morgana lets Gwen hold her very close.

“I’m so proud of you, my Lady. You withstood questioning and such horrific treatment.”

Morgana notes that Gwen does not make mention of the accusations themselves, and files this away for later. She allows the other woman to fuss, turning down bedsheets twice.

“Gwen.”

She turns.

“Arthur told me it was you who stopped him. You saved Gaius today.”

Gwen smiles that shy, kind smile.

“No my Lady, I just helped. It was Merlin who solved it.”

Morgana watches her for a moment and then grabs her hand.

“Gwen…few people would stand up to a Prince on their best days, let alone force them to stop an execution in front of a crowd.” She smiles. “Perhaps you have another calling.”

Gwen tuts and heads for the door, but Morgana notes her thoughtful expression.

As Gwen leaves the smile slips from Morgana’s face and she sits heavily in front of the vanity. The woman in the mirror is exhausted, wrung out from weeks of fear and the events of the last day.

So close. Too close.

She raises a hand in front of her, studies the tremor in her fingers, watches the tendons in her throat stand out as she swallows.

She stares at her eyes. Bright and green, clear and icy against her pale skin and black lashes.

_ “Nothing more, nothing less.”_

She thinks back to the events of the day, the Witchfinder finally caught in his lies, the cold steel against her throat as she was used, yet again, as a pawn. Something to be threatened and discarded, her body not her own. The magick for which she would be condemned unable to even save her, useless from lack of knowledge and fear of discovery.

Time had slowed as she’d taken in the room.

Her guardian, angered and unaware that he was the cause of so much of this torment.

Arthur, brave and looking for any angle that would not leave her filleted and bleeding out on the floor of the chambers.

Merlin, at the back, face stormy.

For a moment she had thought she had seen something, foreign and familiar all at once.

Such a pretty colour.

And then, the flash of heat in the knife near her throat, her captor destined for the window.

She had been gathered up in protective arms and led away to be comforted elsewhere, and his head had stayed down as she passed, eyes downcast.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

Not when it was surely the afternoon sun glinting through the windows that had caused his eyes to flash such a lovely shade of gold.

Morgana reaches a shaking hand towards the mirror, and strokes at her reflection, fingertips skimming over her eyes.

***

_From the surface of the mirror Emrys stares back out at the lonely, tired young woman._

_He thinks of the bitter, rage filled witch he knew as an enemy towards the end._

_And as he watches her raise shaking finger tips to skim over her reflection he sees what she needed, Emrys wonders how they could have been so blind._


End file.
